


Past Our Dancing Days

by lobstergirl



Series: Of Growing and Learning [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg has no idea how to tie a bow tie, Greg hates being called Gregory, Greg speaks French, Hints at eating disorders, M/M, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Mycroft hates being called Myc, Mycroft will not allow clip-on bow ties, Not much escapes Greg Lestrade despite what Sherlock Holmes used to say, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, mystrade, never underestimate the super power of elderly ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post Reichenbach setting in which a disillusioned government official and a demoted police officer find out they have more in common than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Past Our Dancing Days 岁月沉淀的爱恋](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094475) by [Ivylui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivylui/pseuds/Ivylui)



> Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;  
> For you and I are past our dancing days:  
> How long is't now since last yourself and I  
> Were in a mask?  
>  _(William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene V)_

“Yes, certainly. It’s been a pleasure working with you, as usual. Enjoy your weekend, sir, and good day.”

Mycroft Holmes clicked on the icon that closed the web conference and logged off, smiling politely until the screen went blank, and only then he allowed himself to lean back in his chair, cover his face with his hands and groan.

It had been one of these days and he was itching to get out of his office.  He squinted at the pile of documents waiting for either his approval or his signature and briefly toyed with the idea of ignoring them until Wednesday, when he would return from the conference that required his presence, given the agenda, or have them delivered to his flat to be signed the next day, or maybe later this evening.  Just get out of this office with all of its obligations, its sticky office air, away from the bureaucrats and the political games.  He found himself more and more often irritated, cranky even, but wasn’t sure about the origin of his mood swings, for that’s what they were.  Mood swings.

He got up and looked out of the window, noticed the blue sky and the few white puffy clouds and wondered what would happen if he just left and did what other people usually did on a Friday.  He frowned.  Actually, what did other people do?  He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a few days off, let alone gone on a holiday.  He didn’t have friends, at least no-one who truly deserved to be called a friend.  At best, they were acquaintances, people he met through work and its various social obligations with whom he joined for the odd dinner or Sunday brunch appointment, conversations revolving around politics or the economy and if he was lucky, even literature or theatre were touched.  If he ever found himself with an evening off, he usually took his time reading through a pile of newspapers, maybe watch the telly or a movie.  It had been forever since his last social, non-work related interaction and he wondered if that might be the reason for his low spirits and short temper.

Either way, there was no point in postponing the inevitable.  He sighed and sat back down at his desk, reached for the first signature folder and started reading, Anthea’s draft sophisticated and unique, flawless as usual, and he signed it off without re-reading.  Not so the next document, a rather wordy elaboration by one of the junior staff, an aspiring young lawyer.  The basic concept was not bad at all and hinted at a sharp mind, but the overall approach was too vague, too eager to remain within political correctness, artfully and with many multi-syllable words avoiding an actual statement.  Mycroft shook his head and started making corrections, well aware it would earn him anything but applause.  Lawyers were a finicky bunch, easily offended, but there was a fine line between diplomacy and duplicity, and this document could all too easily be twisted around, ending up saying the exact same opposite.

When he was done, it was dark outside and he rang for his driver to pick him up.  He stretched, yawned, cleared his desk and took his briefcase, hanging his coat over his arm as he left. 

While he waited for his car to pull up he exchanged a few friendly sentences with the desk officer who was pleased about having one of the upper echelon recognise his existence.  Many of the high and mighty were so busy playing footsie with the other high and mighty, so entangled in their power games that it never occurred to them to offer the non-government employees even the most basic civility.  Mr Holmes, however, never left without wishing a good evening, or a pleasant weekend, and he even remembered his youngest had just suffered from the measles.  He had tried to find out a little about Mr Holmes but it seemed nobody really knew anything about him or what his exact position was.  He was referred to as the “Director”, with some bolder souls nicknaming him either the “shadow man” or even the “ice man” but just what these nebulous titles contained or how they had come into existence, nobody seemed to know for sure.  He was the older brother of Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective who had committed suicide a little over a year ago, and not much was known about his private life.  He wore a simple gold band on his right hand but always showed up alone at formal gatherings and functions of any kind so even his marital status was a mystery.

A sleek black limousine pulled up by the main entrance, and Mycroft nodded towards the desk officer.

“Good-bye, Mr Jasperson, have a pleasant weekend, and all the best for little Sophie. Let’s hope she feels better by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir, and a pleasant weekend to you, too. It’s supposed to be especially lovely.”

“So I hear. Would be nice after last weekend’s heavy rains.”

Mycroft handed his briefcase to his driver and followed him outside.

******

Saturday morning was every bit as lovely as predicted and Mycroft stood in his generous walk-in closet, mulling over what to wear.  Contrary to what most people believed, his wardrobe did not consist of bespoke suits alone – as much as most people looked forward to dressing up for special occasions, Mycroft Holmes looked forward to dressing down.  Not that his dress-down outfits were standard chain-store material, let alone mail-ordered items, but they weren’t tailored, either, and he happily chose dark blue jeans, a light grey printed shirt and a charcoal moleskin jacket with elbow patches.  A black leather belt and a pair of black simple trim lace-ups completed his outfit and he was ready to go.

Breaking the news about his plans to go for a spontaneous shopping spree to his driver and security staff was another matter entirely.  He compromised to accept a panic-button bracelet and allowed one security officer to follow him but remained adamant about the driver.  This was going to be his day off and he would not be chauffeured around.

He hailed a cab and headed straight for Oxford Street, determined to go with the flow, to drift about aimlessly.  Oxford Street offered an endless variety of shops, and he was vastly enjoying himself.  His security man blessed the fact that his employer was of tall stature, otherwise the task at hand would have been an arduous one – Saturday, sunny spring day, Oxford Street, your basic security nightmare.

He ventured into a men’s clothing shop that seemed to be selling high-quality and stylish, but not overly avant-garde fashion and upon entering a young and openly gay salesclerk immediately latched on to him, keen business senses recognizing a willing victim.  The words “looking for something casual” had not quite left his mouth when the young man’s eyes lit up at the chance of a complete make-over.

“Earthy tones, sir. For your beautiful complexion and lovely auburn hair, it must be earthy tones. All this charcoal makes you look so strict and businesslike, when your skin and hair clearly spell fun and passion.” He looked Mycroft appreciatively up and down.  Mycroft’s mouth twitched at the mention of fun and passion – the way his life was going could not be further away from either – but he good-naturedly endured the salesclerk’s enthusiasm.  He refused daring colour combinations containing either orange or salmon, flat out said no to a pair of dark green trousers but let himself be outfitted with a pair of sand-coloured tapered chinos, a casual jacket of a warm brown and three Oxford shirts of ivory, bottle green and navy blue, paid by credit card, took the bag and sauntered off into the next shop where he found a reefer jacket made of dark brown leather.  A pair of brown leather brogues marked the end of his shopping spree and he debated with himself about whether he should ask the security officer to arrange for pick-up but decided against it.  He would heroically carry his latest acquisitions just like everybody else did.

He made one last turn into Wardour Street to pay a visit to Chappell of Bond Street.  When he had thought of what to do with his free weekend before he went to sleep it had occurred to him he hadn’t played his piano in a very long time and Chappell’s not only offered a wide selection of sheet music but also an excellent tuning service.  He stepped inside and blithely lost himself among the shelves offering piano music books and quickly chose Rachmaninoff’s Prelude Op. 23, a piece he’d been wanting to play for quite some time now.  Two of Chopin’s Etudes made their way into his selection as well, and he went in search of someone to ask for a piano tuner to be sent to his flat.  The manager recognised him at once and was more than happy to arrange for a weekend service, albeit at such short notice.

A cab took him to Kensington Gardens and he chose to sit near the Peter Pan statue.  Mycroft studied the bronze boy and not for the first time thought of his younger brother, Sherlock, who in his own way had refused to grow up, too, and wondered whether…  He sighed, refusing to follow that particular train of thought.  Not now, not here.  He took out his music sheets and started reading them, just like one would read a newspaper, the dots and lines dancing across the sheets making the music come to life in his mind.  His fingers were itching to touch the piano keys and he was looking forward to the piano tuner’s visit.

A movement to his right caught his eye and he looked up to see a runner stop near the statue and go through a stretching routine.  Mycroft let his gaze discreetly wander along the man’s body, taking in broad but not heavy shoulders, strong flanks and slim hips, all covered by a tight long sleeved top and loose running trousers that had a snug enough fit to accentuate powerful thighs and firm buttocks ('fun and passion' shot through his mind, conjuring up unwelcome images).  The man straightened and recognition shot through Mycroft, making him blush furiously.  He had been ogling none other than Detective Inspector Lestrade, his brother’s liaison at New Scotland Yard.  How could he not have recognised him on the spot?  How desperate was he really to become so distracted by another man’s physical features that his otherwise infallible brain missed to identify him as someone he had known for some six years?  Although they hadn’t met or spoken since Sherlock’s… suicide, a decision that had seemed wise at the time, that kind of lapse could not be excused.  He quickly made up his mind that now was as good a time as any to end the silence and rose to approach the DI, knowing his security officer had his trained eyes both on his employer and his shopping bags.

Lestrade cocked his salt and pepper head and looked thoughtfully at the statue.  He stood motionless for a few moments, then turned as if to continue running when Mycroft greeted him in a calm voice.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

******

Perfect running weather.  It was a lovely spring day, and after he had finished the few household chores around his one-bedroomed flat and taken care of some essential shopping, Greg Lestrade changed into his running gear, looking forward to joining the crowds in Hyde Park.  It was probably going to be packed with tourists and families taking a stroll but after spending most of the week chasing down and nailing a particularly cruel murderer, he yearned to see normal people doing normal things, such as taking a walk, meeting with friends and families, going about their harmless and average business.  He took the bus to Hyde Park, did a thorough warm-up stretch routine, plugged his earbuds into place, chose his favourite compilation and started running.

Something good came out of everything.  The past year had not been particularly pleasant, neither with respect to his career nor his personal life, but after nursing a bruised ego and hurt pride and mourning the loss of a man whom he had considered a friend, despite all of his quirks and occasionally condescending behaviour, he had started picking up the pieces and began from scratch.  For once, he had taken up running again, making good use of his free time of which he now had a little more than before, and he had also joined the Met’s football team, quickly becoming a fierce midfielder.  He had lost some weight, too, the nicotine patches weren’t necessary any longer and he felt fitter and healthier than he had in a long time.

He stopped by the Peter Pan statue, switched off his player and did some more stretching, going through the moves with practised ease, liking how his muscles cooperated, so different from his first training sessions which had invariably ended with sore legs and muttered curses. 

He straightened, cocked his head and looked at Peter Pan, the boy who had refused to grow up, and suddenly found himself thinking of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the most brilliant mind he had ever come across, well, with one exception, maybe.  Sherlock Holmes with his swirling coat, unerring observational skills, razor-sharp eyes, lightning quick deductions… and yet, there had been something in him that had refused to grow up, just like Peter Pan.  It had taken a John Watson, ex-soldier and doctor, to carefully and with unwavering patience coax a good man out of that angry child but all had come to an abrupt halt that fateful day when Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death off the roof of St Bart’s.  Lestrade wondered whether Holmes had had any idea how deeply he was going to be mourned.  John Watson was little more than a shell of the man he had come to like and respect, functioning well enough to keep his job at the clinic, refusing to move out of 221B Baker Street, keeping all of Holmes’ belongings as if he was expecting him to return from the dead.  They met for an awkward pint at the pub twice a month, mainly because Lestrade wanted to check up on the other man, to look for signs of substance abuse or suicidal tendencies, and if Watson understood the motives behind his stubborn insistence to keep up their meetings, he never said anything.

Even Sherlock’s brother, the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes, seemed to have added another layer to that ice shield of his.  They had never been particularly close but for some reason Lestrade had always enjoyed their encounters, brief and strange as they usually were, and found he actually missed their short conversations.  The older Holmes possessed a certain dry sense of humour which had occasionally shown in the merest twitch of his mouth, or a slight arch of an elegant eyebrow, maybe even a twinkle in those cool blue-and-grey eyes.  He sighed.  No point mulling over things he couldn’t change, so he turned to continue running when a cool voice reached his ear.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.”

He started and jerked around.

“Mr Holmes!”

He incredulously eyed Mycroft from head to toe.  If he hadn’t recognised the voice – he would recognise that velvety voice everywhere – he might have run by the man without putting the familiar image together with the one that he now tried to wrap his mind around.  Jeans.  Mycroft Holmes was wearing jeans.  And no tie.  He noticed he was gaping and quickly closed his mouth, not wanting to look like an idiot.

“Mr Holmes, what a surprise! I never thought I’d see you around here.”

“Out in the open, you mean?” There it was, the amused glint, and Lestrade couldn’t help the grin forming on his face.

“Yeah, exactly. Looking like just another bloke enjoying the sun. Where are your heavies?”  He eyed around Mycroft’s shoulder and grinned even wider at the sight of a man in a well-fitted suit trying very hard to appear uninterested.  “Ah, there we go. Just one watchdog today then? Enjoying a day off or whatever it’s called in government speech?”

“Indeed, Detective Inspector. A day off it is, including a whole Sunday morning, to be precise, and yes, I am enjoying the sun. Care to sit down for a moment, or am I keeping you from something?”

“No, it’s a weekend off for me, too. And it’s Detective Sergeant now, not Detective Inspector anymore. It was deemed necessary to make an example of me and I got demoted after, well, after your brother decided to jump off that roof.”

There was a hint at bitterness in Lestrade's voice and Mycroft made a dismayed sound.

“I am deeply sorry to hear that! Please accept my sincere apologies, I had no idea.”

“What? How is that possible? I thought you knew everything.”

“I must confess to a certain tunnel vision these past months. I’ve not exactly been my usual self, much as it may surprise you.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Lestrade asked carefully, “Do you think about it a lot? About him?”

Mycroft swallowed and said in a tired voice, “I think about him constantly. There’s hardly a moment when he’s not on my mind.”

“I never thought I would say it, but I miss him. Dreadfully. He could be a real dick, but he was brilliant, and it all seemed so easy and obvious when he explained things to us. And I worry about John. It’s been really hard on him. Me, yeah, I was angry and bitter for quite a while and it still gnaws at me from time to time. I mean it sucked being stripped off the title I worked so hard to get, and the looks I got were even worse, but in the end, it’s just a title and I can still do solid policework. It’s not like I have to divert traffic or anything, but John…”  He cleared his throat, remembering John accusing Mycroft of selling his brother to Moriarty and decided to change the subject before the Holmes ice walls slammed shut on him.  “So, Mycroft Holmes, what does the British Government do on a day off? Been on a shopping spree, I take it?”  He looked at the bags that piled up on the bench, tried to picture Mycroft Holmes doing his own shopping and failed, and squinted at the music sheets.  “You play the piano?”

Mycroft gave an affirmative nod.  “I do. Well, I haven’t played in a while but I plan to change that. Forgive me, but I am a little surprised how quickly you recognised the piano sheets for what they are. I never took you for a musically inclined person.”

Lestrade chuckled.

“I’m not. Well, I mean I like to listen to music and I even know the basic classical repertoire, but I don’t play an instrument. Look at my paws,” he showed his hands, “do you think I could play any instrument other than the drums? My ma teaches the piano, so yeah, I know a little bit about something, but that's about it.”

His hands were broad and not particularly elegant, but Mycroft wouldn’t have chosen ‘paws’ to describe them.  Words like ‘strong’ and ‘capable’ came to mind, and he quickly disposed of the notion what ‘capable’ might entail.  Before he realised his mind’s intention, he heard himself ask, “Do you have any plans for tonight, Detective Sergeant? It seems I have no pressing engagement to attend to and I was just wondering whether you might like to join me for dinner?”

He groaned inwardly.  What was he thinking?  ‘Join me for dinner’ as in ‘Hello handsome’?  Too late now, the words were out and he only hoped he hadn’t given the wrong impression.  What was it that people said about spring air?  It certainly did strange things to his mind.

Lestrade, however, did not seem to read any hidden meaning into the question. 

“I’d love to, but I’m meeting a few mates at the pub tonight.” He paused, then hesitantly suggested, “Care to come along? It’ll be fun! They’re good lads and even if they come across a bit rough, they mean no harm, and they won’t start a pub brawl or anything.”

Mycroft blinked.  A night out at a pub?  With Lestrade and his… mates?  _Oh dear._   Still, the idea had a certain appeal, and he was feeling a little adventurous.

“Anybody I know? Will they recognise me?”

Lestrade thought for a moment, mentally going through the group he was meeting tonight.

“No, I don’t think so. They’re Met boys but I don’t think they’ve ever seen you before. Even if they have, it’s not like you’ve been around for meetings or such, and they probably only remember seeing a posh bloke in a three piece suit. If you come as you are, they’ll have no idea, and I’ll just introduce you as Myc.”  He pronounced it ‘Mike’ and Mycroft winced a little.  He abhorred having his name abbreviated but it was either that or lose the chance of spending an evening with normal people.  And wasn’t that what he had daydreamt of only the day before?  To do what other people did on a weekend?  Well, here was the opportunity to do just that, and he would not let it go.  An evening at the pub it was going to be, and Lord have mercy on his soul.

So he nodded and smiled.

“That would be lovely, Detective Sergeant. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be happy to meet your mates.”

Lestrade returned his smile.

“Great! Wow, that’s unexpected, but great! It’s the Silver Fox,” he gave him the address, “around 8 pm. There’s live music but don’t worry, no karaoke or anything,” he quickly added when he saw the worried look cross Mycroft’s face. “Oh, and something else.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Greg, or Lestrade. No titles for a pub meeting, please.”

“Greg. I presume that’s short for Gregory?”

“Yeah, but nobody calls me that.”

“Greg. Gregory.” He tried both versions, and a decision was reached quickly. “Gregory. I like the way it feels on my tongue. Gregory it is. And please, call me Mycroft, or Myc, whichever you prefer.”

'I like the way it feels on my tongue.'  Who said things like that?  Greg swallowed, tried to ignore his suddenly increased heartrate and searched Mycroft’s face for a hint at the innuendo this statement implied but found none.  His gaze was returned calmly, nothing teasing in those eyes whatsoever.  He cleared his throat.

“Right. 8 pm it is.”  He stood and stretched.  “I’m off, then. I’ll see you tonight, Myc.” 

“See you tonight, Gregory.”

They nodded at each other and Greg turned to run back the way he had come, leaving a stunned Mycroft Holmes behind who sagged back against the bench, closed his eyes and rubbed his hands across his face.  A pub meeting.

_Careful what you wish for._


	2. Chapter 2

The piano tuner showed up exactly on time and went about his business quickly and professionally, openly admiring the beautiful grand piano that wasn’t very much out of tune after all.  He was done in a little less than an hour and Mycroft eagerly sat down at the piano to run through a few warm-up exercises and tried his hand at one of the Chopin etudes he had purchased earlier that day.

When it got closer to 8 pm, he started to feel a little nervous, wondering what he had got himself into.  He had spent his last pub evening during his uni days, just before his exams.  It seemed ages ago, and to be honest, it felt ages ago, too.  Right after uni he had stepped on the path that had brought him up the career ladder to where he was now.  Years of tedious groundwork, enough legwork to last a lifetime, grovelling, smiling, playing along, hush-hush, always on the watch.  Now he was in a position where others grovelled and curtsied to him, and there were days he was amused by it, and days where he heartily despised it.

Tonight was going to be different, and the more he thought about it, the more it looked like a gigantic adventure.  A night out at the pub with Lestrade’s ‘Met boys’ who would be unlikely to grovel.  He felt the corners of his mouth lift.  That was not what he had expected his day off to be, and as much as he hated his carefully scheduled days to take unexpected turns, he had to admit to a certain giddiness.

He thought about changing but decided against it.  ‘Come as you are’ Lestrade had told him, so that’s what he would do.  Lestrade.  Gregory.  He hadn’t given the man much thought since Sherlock had jumped and he wondered why he had allowed for that to happen.  Lestrade had been the one to pick Sherlock up when his irritating little brother had once again escaped a rehab centre and had fallen back into his cocaine habits, worse than ever, had succeeded where he, Mycroft, had failed.  For that alone, he owed him endlessly.  He had kept their occasional meetings brief and to the point, not wanting to appear over-protective.  Sherlock’s endless side blows and remarks about Lestrade being his ‘handler’ had been tiring enough.  Lestrade had taken it all with grace and a good sense of humour, occasionally seemed a little stung but had always appeared to actually like Sherlock who had tried so hard to come across unlikeable.  It had taken two men with a remarkable no-nonsense approach to life, a policeman and an ex-soldier, to see through Sherlock’s mask of indifference so after Sherlock had jumped, Mycroft had made sure to stay away and add an extra layer to his own mask for it would not do for them to find out about things that would put them into danger.  And so the months had passed and he and the Detective Inspector had lost touch.  Had lost touch so thoroughly that he hadn’t even known Lestrade had been demoted, and for that, he felt terrible.  It would have been child’s play, a well-placed whisper here and there, to stop this from happening.  He admired the man’s pragmatic take on things which would be unthinkable in his circles.  He huffed.  Just to think one of the political flunkies would shrug a demotion off and carry on as Lestrade had – inconceivable! 

Right.  He checked the time on his mobile and rang his driver.  He would take his car to the pub, well, he would ask his driver to stop well within walking distance for he had no intention to make an entrance pulling up in a limo.  The next call was directed to his security staff to let them know what he was up to and that he would need two guards tonight – he smiled as he recalled Lestrade checking for his ‘heavies’.

A little after 8 pm he entered the Silver Fox and quickly spotted Lestrade and his friends who had placed themselves strategically well with their backs to a wall and the stage in full view.  Once a policeman, always a policeman, he mused and went to join them.

******

Greg arrived before 8 pm to find that Paul and Andy had showed up a little early, too, having secured the best spot.  Backs were slapped heartily and the first pints were ordered.

“Hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited an old friend to join us tonight,” he remarked casually. “Ran into him at Kensington Gardens this afternoon and thought it would be nice to catch up with him.”  Paul merely shrugged and asked whether that old friend of his was good fun and Greg’s mouth twitched a little.  To be honest, he had no idea how the evening was going to turn out.  Was Mycroft Holmes good fun?  He had spent a good part of the afternoon wondering what had possessed him to invite him at all.  Asking Mycroft Holmes out was an absurdity in itself, but asking him out for a night at the pub was almost outrageous.  Wait, he hadn’t really asked him out.  Not as in, ask out for a date.  Or had he?  Wasn’t it Mycroft who had asked first, whether he would join him for dinner?  Suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore.  In any case, the Mycroft he had met earlier had seemed lightyears away from the stiff politician he had known for years, open and approachable instead of on guard and distant, and he had felt inexplicably drawn to him.  He had got nervous then, starting to fuss over what to wear to the pub, inwardly scolding himself, still he had changed four times until he had settled for a pair of jeans, a black V-neck, heavy leather boots and his old leather bomber jacket, going for the tamed biker look which he felt comfortable enough in so a posh Holmes wouldn’t make him nervous on his home turf.

“I asked whether this friend of yours is any fun, mate,” Paul repeated.  Greg started and gave a non-committal monosyllabic reply.  Andy shot him a sharp look and suddenly smirked knowingly.  Greg glared at him, daring him to say a word.  Andy was one of the very few Met colleagues who knew Greg liked the company of both men and women because his interests went the same way, although Greg had flirted and enjoyed the occasional shag with only women since his divorce.  He hadn’t been with a man since his uni days and the thought of Mycroft Holmes being the first one after such a long time was laughable.  Or was it?  He didn’t even know what Holmes’ preferences were in that field, hell, one could never be sure about anything with the Holmeses.  He would have bet money on John Watson and Sherlock Holmes being lovers until John had told him, no, they hadn’t been, and had looked like he deeply regretted it.

Kevin and Thomas joined them, then Andy nudged him and gestured towards the entrance. 

“That him?”

Greg looked up and suddenly his mouth went dry as he spotted Mycroft making his way towards them.  Andy moved closer and said into his ear, “Posh. Not your usual type, is he?”  Before Greg could grace that remark with a reply, Mycroft reached them and nodded his head in greeting.  Introductions were made and when the waitress walked by, he ordered a gin and tonic.

Mycroft looked around, all-seeing eyes taking in every detail, scanning the crowd, judging the pub.  Well-established, well-frequented, popular but not a must-see location, not spick and span clean but no mud hole, either, guests ranging from their mid-twenties to their mid-fifties, business people mixing cheerfully with students, cliques and couples alike.  A very eclectic mix of people and it would be easy to blend in.  Years of experience in moving around political circles had equipped him with chameleon-like transformational qualities, and spending an evening with a crowd looking for a pleasant night out with their friends should be no more difficult than spending an evening amongst representatives of certain more radically inclined nations.

So he relaxed, adopted a comfortable body posture, one shoulder against the wall, drink in one hand, head slightly tilted to listen to Kevin’s speculation about the upcoming Champions Leagues matches.  He didn’t care much about football, could not for the life of him understand the fascination about 22 men battling for a ball, but understood and respected the game’s importance in other people’s lives and knew enough to get him through a conversation without embarrassing himself.

Greg looked him over out of the corner of his eye and felt the sudden and irresistible urge for a cigarette rise in him.  He hadn’t smoked in almost two years, dammit, he had even managed to rid himself of the nicotine patches, but the sight of Mycroft Holmes perfectly at ease, chatting football of all topics with his friends from the Met made him yearn for a cigarette.  He didn’t even show one sign of discomfort or nervousness, for all it was worth he could be holding a glass of martini in those long fingers of his, all dressed up in a tux attending one of the polite and political dinner parties he no doubt frequented more often that a pub.  Their eyes met. Greg felt heat rising up his neck and for a moment thought Mycroft’s cheeks had tinted just a bit, too.  He took a big gulp from his glass and signalled the waitress for another round, then he shrugged out of his leather jacket and rolled his shoulders, determined not to get all flustered over one posh bloke with long elegant fingers and aristocratic eyebrows.  

Mycroft watched Greg take off his jacket and was having a hard time not to stare.  Dear God, but the man was gorgeous.  He had looked tempting in his running gear but this?  Greg Lestrade knew how to wear his jeans, and the smooth rolling of his shoulders conjured up unwelcome images of strong muscles, of rough and tumble, of… fun and passion.  The salesclerk’s words kept popping up in his mind, and while he couldn’t force-feed passion into his life, nothing seemed wrong about having a little fun tonight, if only in his imagination.  He stole another glance.  The simple shirt did nothing to hide the lithe grace of those muscles, well-defined but not bulging, svelte rather than heavy.  When their eyes had met, he had felt his cheeks heat and could have sworn the other man had blushed ever so slightly.  Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek.  Not what he had expected at all.

Finally the band was announced, Irish with an American lead singer, and the audience greeted them with stormy applause.  They were obviously rather popular, and Mycroft eyed their variety of instruments suspiciously.  Guitars, a fiddle, a banjo, pipes, a penny whistle, drums, even a battered piano had been dragged out of its corner where it no doubt led a sad and much ignored life.  The stage didn’t seem big enough to hold that many instruments and musicians, but when the band settled down, they managed remarkably well and soon got the crowd going. 

Mycroft relaxed further, took a stool and sat down, placing one foot on the rung and started drumming the fingers of his left hand on the small table in rhythm with the music.  The band actually wasn’t too bad, playing a wide selection of folk and rock and the musicians all seemed to have had some music lessons at some point in their lives.  Their lead singer played his charisma well and soon had a remarkably large group of women at his feet, cheering every gesture, and both performer and his fans were clearly having a good time.

Thomas nodded in Mycroft’s direction.

“You play the piano, Mike?”

Mycroft pretended not to hear but Greg answered for him.

“Yeah he does.”

“Wanna give it a try when the band goes on a break? People sometimes do that around here.”

A mortified look was bestowed upon Thomas who laughed. 

“You don’t have to, but it kinda looked like you were playing along, ‘s all.”

“But you do play the piano?” Andy asked curiously, and Mycroft nodded.

“Yes I do, but I don’t think the sort of music I usually play belongs here.”

The moment of danger seemed to have passed when Andy turned to face the stage and started to sing along, and Mycroft allowed himself to steal another glance or two at Greg who was moving with the beat, but in between songs Andy made his way through the crowd without a warning and approached the stage to talk to the lead singer who nodded and looked in their direction.  Andy turned around and pointed at them, and Mycroft’s heart sank.  He glowered at Greg who had the grace to look a little scandalized.

Andy returned and nudged Mycroft.

“Two more songs, then they’ll go on a break. Your chance to shine, Mike.”

He winked, raised his glass and toasted Mycroft who sighed, determined to take it like a man and not chicken out.  When the singer announced their break – “we’ll be back shortly, folks, but Mike over there will play the piano while we’re gone” –, he straightened, took off his jacket and placed it neatly on the stool, squared his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves.  Desperate times called for desperate measures.  With that in mind, he went to the stage where he was greeted with a toothy smile.

“Stage’s all yours, dude.” The singer offered his fist, clearly expecting a fist bump and Mycroft obliged.  _Dear God_.  About to be on stage in a pub, bumping knuckles with a longhaired American.  Something very strange indeed was going on with him but he wouldn’t lie to himself and pretend he didn’t feel… alive.  He sat down at the piano, lifted his hands and let them hover over the keys for a moment.

Greg watched him from his corner.  He had serious problems putting the two versions of Mycroft together – the haughty and guarded three piece suit politician and ‘Mike’, perfectly at ease in a surrounding that most certainly was not his natural habitat.  And the glances he shot him when he thought he wasn’t looking?  In any other man, or woman, Greg would easily have recognized the signs of being checked out for what they were, but in Mycroft?  Was he checking him out?  Did he even know how to flirt?  He looked at him sitting at the piano with his hands over the keys and felt sorry for letting the piano remark slip.  The man had bought Rachmaninoff and Chopin, for Christ’s sake, what would he do now?  He took a gulp from his pint, waiting nervously.  Then the left hand came down on the keys and started an up-tempo bass line, and he nearly spat his beer all over himself as Mycroft Holmes launched into a boogie-woogie that had the crowd go wild in no time at all.  Greg stared, mouth open, beer forgotten, and Andy slapped him on the back of his head.

“Not what you expected, eh? He’s a redhead, mate, you bet he’s got fire!”

Greg’s mouth went dry again, but for an altogether different reason, and he hoped Andy wouldn’t notice.  But Andy did, of course, and damn his knowing smirk.  Greg shot him a dirty look and tried to appear unperturbed but when Mycroft played another boogie, he wormed his way through the crowd and went to stand before the stage, needing to see this from up close and ended up stuck next to a quartet of enthusiastic young women clapping their hands and whistling.  Their comments went from “oh gawd he’s so hot” to “look at his hands, I’d be his slave forever if he only put his hands on me”.  At these words, his gaze dropped to rest on Mycroft’s hands and he found himself immediately mesmerised.  Long, elegant fingers gracefully and effortlessly danced over the keys, coaxing bubbling tones out of the shabby-looking instrument, sparkling melody held steady by a solid bass line, and suddenly Greg, too, began to wonder what else these fingers might be capable of.  It was that moment that Mycroft looked up and Greg’s breath hitched.  He had never seen him look so happy and carefree before and when their eyes met, Mycroft smiled at him, a real smile, eyes sparkling with joy, and it took Greg’s breath away.  For the second time this evening he felt heat creeping up his neck but this time, he didn’t care.  He raked his hand through his hair and returned the smile.  Mycroft winked at him and started playing a jaunty little piece that had its notes ghost through the air like will-o’-the-wisps, fingers moving at impossible speed and with unerring precision.

When he was finished, Mycroft rose from the piano stool and gave the cheering crowd a polite little bow, cheeks flushed, his eyes fixed on Greg.  He stepped off the stage and was immediately surrounded by women and men alike, receiving claps on the shoulder and more than one smouldering look and playful invitation.  Greg watched him smile and let himself be hugged and for a fleeting moment harboured a crazy fantasy of hauling Mycroft away in a ‘he’s with me’ style.  Instead, he hastily retreated back into his safe corner to join his friends and eyed a small pile of notes on the table.

“What’s all this?”

“They’re phone numbers and love notes for your posh little friend,” Paul said with a touch of envy in his voice.

“He’s not my posh little friend!” Greg snapped angrily.

“Well, so they’re for the posh piano player. Man, did you know he could play like that? I thought he was going to pull a Mozart or shit but no, he makes Jerry Lee Lewis hide in a corner and cry.”

“Go figure,” Greg sourly said, emptied his pint, grabbed his jacket and tapped Kevin’s shoulder.

“Mind if I scrounge a fag?”

Kevin offered him his pack and lighter.

“Thought you had quit?”

“Yeah. Need to step outside for a moment. Getting a little stuffy in here.”

He pointedly ignored Andy’s grin and made his way outside.  He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.  It didn’t taste as good as his imagination had made him believe but he needed it now, needed to take his mind off Mycroft Holmes and his smile and his sodding fingers and his long legs, holy fuck, but that man had some long legs on him.  Slim hips, too, and a surprisingly firm-looking arse.  Nothing like a pair of well-fitted jeans to set off a good arse.  Who would have thought?  Then again, those three piece suits never gave anything away and besides, he had never really looked because it had never occurred to him.  You didn’t gape at a Holmes unless you wanted one of those blasted deduction speeches rain down on your head, thank you very much. 

The cigarette was finished too quickly, and he angrily lit another one.

******

Mycroft lifted his eyes from the piano keys to find Greg in front of the stage, staring at him as if hypnotised, brown eyes huge and darker than usual, and when their eyes met, Mycroft smiled and Greg blushed and raked his fingers through his hair so it stood up at odd tufts, but he returned the smile with a little impish one of his own which caused something in Mycroft’s stomach to flutter.  He managed a wink, not wanting to appear as flustered as he felt, and decided the third and final piece was going to be the ‘Coultergeist’, a merry piece he loved to play and which seemed just right.

The applause he was awarded when he was done overwhelmed him.  The crowd cheered and whistled, their heartfelt appreciation flooding him with warmth.  He gave a polite little bow, stepped off the stage and was immediately surrounded which made him feel a little uncomfortable, but it would not do to push people away whose intentions were anything but hostile – and his security men had their eyes on him on all accounts – so he endured their hugs and slaps on his shoulders with good humour, returned smiles and replied to attempts at flirtation with witty but meaningless jokes, all the while feeling Greg’s dark eyes on him.  For all it was worth, he looked ready to pounce, positively possessive, and Mycroft’s skin started to tingle under that heated stare. 

When he finally made it back to their corner, Greg was gone.  He looked questioningly at Andy who shrugged and said with an innocent look on his face, “went outside for a smoke, I think”.  Mycroft shot him a sharp look and the corners of Andy’s mouth started to twitch a little, so he merely raised an eyebrow, smiled politely, excused himself and went outside to look for Greg.

He found him a couple of steps away from the other smokers, lighting a cigarette with the grim determination of a man on a mission.  He approached him and made a disapproving sound.

“Smoking is bad for you, Gregory,” he chided softly.

Greg took an extra long drag in response to that.  “Oh yeah? I do lots of things that are bad for me.”

“Enlighten me?”

_Like asking you out on a pub night and then wondering whether it’d be your hands or your arse that’d make me want to scream your name._

“Oh, like working with the Met, like driving a car in Paris, like getting involved with the Holmes brothers, you know, things.”  He shrugged and looked at him.  “So, how do you like it so far? Mingling with the commoners?”

Taking another long drag from the cigarette, he tilted his head back on a slow exhale, the strong column of his neck exposed in a most inviting fashion, and acting on impulse, Mycroft snatched the cigarette out of his mouth.

“I said,” he repeated, “smoking is bad for you.”

Greg’s protest died in his throat when Mycroft didn’t throw the cigarette away but put it between his own lips instead, inhaling deeply and with closed eyes.  He had never been much of a smoker but every now and then, he gave in to a guilty pleasure, such as overpriced and oversugared American coffee or the occasional cigarette, and he found this particular cigarette provided for both – nicotine, obviously, but also sweetness, for no other reason than for having been between Greg’s lips.  If tonight was going to be unprecedented, might as well enjoy it.  Tomorrow he would don one of his bespoke suits, get on board a private jet and spend the first half of the week picking up and putting back together shattered pieces in one of the former Soviet states, smoothing ruffled feathers, playing the game he knew so well. 

But that was tomorrow, and this was tonight.  He slowly opened his eyes and met Greg’s stunned expression with a lazy smile.

“In response to your question, Gregory, I find I’m exceedingly enjoying myself. I must admit I had briefly toyed with the idea of coming up with a well-worded excuse about pressing matters that needed my attention after all, despite having told you there was nothing of the sort, but I have seldom been more grateful for not listening to reason.”

“I, uh, you…” Greg stammered, eyes fixed on the cigarette dangling from the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Well, I didn’t know you smoked. And I didn’t know you’re such a piano player, either,” he ended on an accusing note.

“Seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”  Long fingers flicked the cigarette into the gutter.  “Just as there is a lot I don’t know about you. Shame, really.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow, that impish smile returning to his face.

“Are you flirting with me, Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft considered the question, caught between the habit of giving a diplomatically evasive reply and the desire to be honest.  He settled for a compromise.

“I don’t know yet, Gregory. Would you like me to? I would hate to impose myself on you in an unwelcome fashion.”

The impish smile took on a decidedly seductive quality.

“Consider yourself very welcome.”

“Well, in that case, consider yourself flirted with.”

And with that, the air between them seemed to shift, ever so subtly, and they both wondered how they had never really noticed each other before.

“Well,” Greg finally said, “we better get back inside before the lads start talking.”

“People do little else, Gregory, and the lads started talking when you followed me to the stage. Wait,” he touched Greg’s arm as the other man snorted and turned to walk back inside. “Give me your mobile phone, please.”

“What for? Are you going to plant some sort of spyware on it?”

Mycroft chuckled.

“The idea has merit.” He held out his hand. “Please?”

Greg reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed him the mobile.  Mycroft unlocked the screen and frowned.

“Unprotected? Really?”

“The only way.”

Mycroft tsked.  “Bite your tongue.”

“Bite it for me,” Greg shot back.

“Don’t tempt me.”  Deft fingers flew over the mobile’s keys and the phone was handed back to its owner.  “My personal mobile number. You’re one out of three people I’ve given it to, and I’d appreciate it to stay that way.”

“Understood.”  The phone disappeared again.  “Out of curiosity – who are the other two?”

His question was met with a polite smile and he sighed.

“Just trying, OK? Let’s go back inside.”

Inside, the band was playing again and the pile of notes on the table had grown a little.  Mycroft gave it a puzzled look, and Paul explained its significance.

“Really? For me?” Mycroft looked genuinely surprised.

Kevin remarked with a hint of mockery in his voice, “Most of them are from women.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, Kevin. I have very much noticed there are quite a few rather lovely women here tonight, and I’m truly sorry if I’ve given the impression I might dislike them.”

“You don’t?”

“I do not.”

Kevin visibly relaxed, and Mycroft almost rolled his eyes.  He caught Greg’s half-smirk and suppressed one of his own.  He hadn’t lied – he liked women, he just wasn’t attracted to them.

The rest of the evening passed in amicable camaraderie and when they parted ways, Mycroft was invited to come back.  He promised he would meet them again as soon as his schedule allowed and briskly walked off into the direction where his car waited for him, a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before.

His mobile vibrated the moment he settled into the leather seats.

_Will I see you again some time this week?  --GL_

_Sadly, no. Travelling.  --MH_

_All week? --GL_

_Might be able to make time for dinner on Friday.  --MH_

_Please do.  --GL_

Mycroft smiled, and the fluttering returned to his stomach.

_Done.  -–MH_

He would think of something.  He always did.  That’s what he was good at.


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time since Mycroft Holmes had chosen to walk the professional path his talents and inclinations had taken him, he simply and truly was enjoying himself.  Not that the topic or the surroundings were of a particularly inspiring or joyous nature, oh, quite the contrary.  The atmosphere was deadly and venomous, tempers flaring hot, national pride and religious self-concepts at war with each other, insults and barely concealed threats either hissed in secret or shouted out loudly, and Mycroft was forced to raise his voice more than once, a crude method of being heard that he heartily despised but nevertheless mastered superbly. 

“Quiet, please!” he thundered, and a second time, in Russian, just in case, “tishina, požalujsta!”

His trained voice boomed over the angry goings-on amongst the conference’s participants and for a few precious moments everybody seemed to snap to attention so the next agenda item could be addressed.

No, the reason Mycroft was enjoying himself was the prospect to come home to something worth coming home for.  It made the whole strenuous affair less of an ordeal because the prospect of a Friday dinner with Greg Lestrade fuelled his system with bubbling energy and a zen-like willingness to see all this through without his temper snapping (as it had been on the verge of doing during the past weeks, nay, months) or his nerves fraying.  During the conference and while he was in politician mode, he kept the lid of his box of cherished memories firmly shut, not needing to conjure up the images again and again for fear of forgetting a precious detail.  His eidetic memory had imprinted and stored them forever into his very own mind palace.

During one of the short coffee breaks he excused himself and went to the men’s toilets to let cold water run over his wrists, needing to cool down from the stuffy and unventilated air in the run-down conference room with its badly outdated air conditioning system.  He looked up from his wrists and studied his face in the mirror for signs of tiredness or – heaven forbid! – stubble, but found neither.

_Consider yourself very welcome._

Out of the blue and seemingly of its own accord, the little sentence escaped its assigned corner to echo in his mind, firmly attached to the image of an impish smile.  The corners of Mycroft’s mouth lifted despite the depressing surroundings and he smiled at his reflection.  Warmth spread in his chest and he held on to it even as he forced his features back into their usual calm and polite expression.  The day wasn’t over yet and the end of his list of things to do was nowhere in sight, and it was about time he returned to the conference room.  Not quite the time to start daydreaming but he liked the way this little memory made him feel. 

He permitted himself the luxury of a deep sigh, straightened and made his way back.  Inside, the noise was deafening and another sigh, barely audible this time, escaped him as he took his seat on the podium, signalling the conference assistant to ring the bell and officially end the pause. 

 

After a seemingly endless day that gave way to a tedious reception, he headed back to his hotel suite where Anthea had already prepared the papers for next day’s negotiations which were going to be held in a smaller meeting room with only a few participants and no audience.  That part was going to be both easier and infinitely more difficult than today’s event for a handful of people was more simple to keep in check than a large audience, but the venom was going to be more readily delivered and aimed with deadlier precision, too.  Things that might get lost when uttered in a crowd would be sure to hit their target when let loose in a small group.

It was almost three o’clock when he finally switched the lights off, and only then he let his mind wander back to Saturday evening.  How easy it had been to blend in, and how thoroughly enjoyable the experience to converse with people not waiting for an unwisely chosen word or an awkwardly phrased sentence to be uttered so it could be twisted and reshaped into something insulting.  ‘Mike’ had been well received, not judged or weighed or assessed for his potential.  He had just been another bloke, welcome amongst Lestrade’s ‘lads’.  Gregory.  Mycroft smiled in the darkness.  What an unanticipated turn their acquaintance had taken!

_Are you flirting with me, Mycroft Holmes?_

Strange that he had never before noticed just how attractive Lestrade really was.  He spent almost all of his time within his strict behavioural patterns, never side-stepping, never exploring anymore.  All neatly pigeonholed, unerringly categorised and mapped into obedience.  Lestrade had been filed away to a part of his mind that belonged to his brother and everything and everybody associated with him, and although there had been moments of agreeable compatibility in their short conversations, such as the mutual acknowledgement of an absurd situation that had resulted in the briefest of smiles flickering across a face or lips twitching slightly, no effort had ever been made on either side to take this beyond business level.

With Sherlock… gone, however, it didn’t seem to make much sense to hold on to the rigid pigeonholes anymore.  Maybe it was time to explore possibilities and prospects beyond the political games he so enjoyed playing, and Lestrade had seemed an interested and worthy opponent in a game he hadn’t played in a very, very long time.

_Bite it for me._

Indeed.  Now there was an invitation if he had ever heard one, and wouldn’t he like to take the handsome Detective Sergeant up on that.  The unbidden image of a head tilted back, of a strong neck deliciously exposed surfaced from under that lid of memories and he wondered whether Lestrade’s tanned skin would feel as warm as it looked, and what it would taste like under his lips.  He felt a tiny spark inside of him stir cautiously back to life, but his overwhelming tiredness got to him before he finished that thought.

******

Greg shot around the corner, lunged and tackled the suspect, knocking him straight to the ground.  With a practised move, honed by years of experience, he flipped him over so he came to lie on his stomach, cuffed him and advised him of his rights.

The thug writhed underneath him and snarled, “Get off me, you faggot! You enjoy sitting on my arse?”

“Nah,” said Greg and hauled him upright, “you’re not my type. Too skinny and way too young.”

He grabbed the man’s arm in a steely grip and dragged him back to the street where a police car stood waiting.  He handed the cuffed man over to a uniformed policeman and turned to face Sally Donovan.

“Having fun, sir?” she said, grinning.

“I’m on fire!” he shouted in reply, feeling silly at once but on a second thought found he didn’t really care.  She shot him a surprised look and he continued in a more reasonable manner, “You bet I am. So good being a dick every now and then, and leave the political correctness and the sodding paperwork to someone else.”  He tried to dust himself down but the stain on his left knee looked like it meant to stay right where it was.  “Where’s Dimmock?”

Sally shrugged.  “Wiping his desk, maybe. He’s become a bit invisible these past months. Sometimes I think…” she broke off, hesitant to continue.  Even though Greg was now technically of a rank with her, she still saw him as her boss and was a bit more careful around him than she was around others.  He appreciated that and gave her credit for not falling prey to false camaraderie in an attempt to veil the facts – he had been demoted, simple as that, but it wouldn’t do to pretend he had never been in charge of investigations such as this one.  Greg tried his best to remain neutral, holding himself back, not offering advice that wasn’t asked for, not trying to assume authority he wasn’t entitled to anymore, not huffing and pouting and whining about being unfairly treated.  He had found a new basis to start from with most fellow policemen and officers; with some it remained difficult and some he chose to stay away from.  DI Dimmock belonged in the second group, and so he shrugged, too, and finished Sally’s sentence for her.

“… my shoes are more difficult to step into than he expected.”  It wasn’t meant to be arrogant, and Sally didn’t take it the wrong way.  Dimmock wasn’t a bad inspector but had soon found out that the job of a homicide DI involved more than being a good and solid worker with a quick brain.  Apart from the paperwork that was Sisyphean labour redefined, it involved leading a team, dealing with ego issues and the occasional backstabbing amongst ambitious police officers, dealing with the Met’s political games, and it also involved standing before the press.  In his quieter moments Dimmock had to admit to himself that his job had been considerably easier when DI Lestrade had been there to take the lead, so he tended to stay behind and ‘work on an overall strategy’ whenever DS Lestrade was on one of his cases, too.  Greg didn’t take offence but stubbornly refused to smooth the way too thoroughly.

They got into the car and he let her take the wheel while he rang Dimmock to give him a brief update.  Back at the Met they bumped into Andy who quickly stepped aside so as not to be run over by Greg who crossed the corridor with rapid strides.

“Careful, Rogers, he’s on fire,” warned Sally. 

Andy cocked his head in Greg’s direction.

“Oh yeah? I wonder why that might be?” he mused, just loud enough for Greg to hear.  Sally’s head snapped up, her eyes shining with curiosity.  Greg spun on his heel and came up to him, looking him dead in the eye.

“Not another word if you value your health,” he said in a threatening tone.  Andy gave him a sunny smile and crossed his heart.

“Upon my honour, not a word before womenfolk.”

“And not before menfolk either,” insisted Greg.

Sally rolled her eyes and huffed in mock offense.  “Alright, I get it. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?”

“Right,” came the solemn reply.

“Whatever, boys. I’ll find out sooner or later anyway. We all know you blokes can’t keep a secret if your lives depended on it. Just grant me this one – this man thing does not involve the two of you in anything grossly improper?”

Andy and Greg looked at each other, clearly appalled by the very idea.

“Us? Dear God no!” Andy choked out, and Greg confirmed in a similarly disgusted voice, “I wouldn’t touch him with two layers of latex.”

“Ewww, boys, no pictures please!”  Still, she gave both of them a sharp look but instead of probing any further turned and left, and it wasn’t before she was well out of earshot that Andy nudged Greg.

“On fire, eh? Got ignited by a posh redhead then?”

Greg cleared his throat.

“I don’t know yet, but, ah well, I’m not gonna lie to you. Yeah I’m interested, but I’m not sure about him. He’s not exactly an extrovert person, you know, he’s hard to read.”

“He’s a bit stiff, yeah? Got a stick up his arse?”

“More like an umbrella,” Greg chuckled.

“But there’s gotta be something of a spark there, or else he couldn’t play the piano like that. I mean, I know next to nothing about piano music but I know enough about people and let me tell you, once you remove that stick you might want to step away from his fire.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary. I can take heat,” Greg said lightly but couldn’t avoid a treacherous blush creep up his neck at the thought of Mycroft letting go. 

Andy smirked but chose not to comment.  “Made any plans to see him again?”

“Dinner on Friday.”

“Dinner? Formal, then?”

“Dunno, maybe a little. I mean, we haven’t seen each other in a year or so, and it’s not like there’s ever been anything between us. Might wanna take it slow and see what happens.”

“Make the most of it, mate, you sure deserve some fun. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, no matter what Donovan says.”

Greg nodded and headed for the men’s toilets.  As he washed his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, studied his stubble and his salt-and-pepper hair and wondered just when and how he had gone from the wrong side of the forties back to fidgety teenager, all within a couple of hours and all because of a ‘posh redhead’ whom he had known for years and whom he had never really known at all.

_Consider yourself flirted with._

He grinned at himself.  Mycroft Holmes had flirted with him.  Mycroft, who had stolen his cigarette right from his mouth to put it between his own lips.  And they were meeting for dinner on Friday.  Something to look forward to.  Finally. 

He checked his watch.  Right, time to get to the incident room for the briefing.  He whistled to himself on the way, felt like he was walking on sunshine and didn’t care who looked at him funny. 

******

Friday evening seemed like such a long time away, and it was still only noon.  Mycroft was fighting the urge to pull his mobile from his inner pocket to check for messages.  He had put it on mute before entering the conference room to join the Prime Minister and his inner circle, the memory of yesterday’s momentary and embarrassing loss of control when the vibration had gone off still fresh in his mind.  He had texted Lestrade as soon as his plane had landed and his immediate schedule was confirmed, to let him know he was back on British soil and to ask whether he was still interested in having dinner.  He hadn’t heard from him until the next morning and had worked himself into a state not unlike an oncoming nervous breakdown, although he appeared calm and in control on the outside, maybe a little tense if anybody had bothered to look more closely.  Hardly anybody ever did, however, so when his mobile finally went off the next morning in the vibration mode specifically assigned to signal messages coming in on his personal number, he almost jumped, making the minister of defence drop his fountain pen and spill ink over the paper that lay before him, ready to sign.  Mycroft had been mortified to the core and had it not been for Anthea who with great foresight had provided him with an extra set of copies, he would have been forced to inconvenience a staff member. So he had smiled apologetically, exchanged the blotched sheet with a clean one and made a witty remark about electronic slavemasters and quadband shackles which had earned him a grim chuckle from the minister who was known to fiercely dislike his own mobile phone.

Once outside the minister’s office, he had snatched the mobile from his pocket.

_You bet I’m still interested. Where and when? –GL_

And there it had been again, the warm feeling in his chest.  He had thought for a moment, then typed a quick reply.

_La Fille et l’Agneau, 8:30 tomorrow night. Will send a car. --MH_

_Very fancy? --GL_

_Within reason. No leather, no denim. --MH_

_Bugger. --GL_

_Indeed. --MH_

It would not do to jump in front of the Prime Minister, so the mobile phone was muted and Mycroft stepped inside the conference room.

“Ah, Mr Holmes, come in! We’ve just been wondering if you might be able to shed some light on the unlucky situation the press seem determined to base their weekend front pages on.”

“Prime Minister. Gentlemen.”  Mycroft shook the offered hand and sat down.  “Allow me to present a brief overview before discussing possible media reactions.”

******

Greg stood before the restaurant and watched the people walking in and out.  Posh and well-dressed, but not trendy.  Those who went inside looked expectant and those who came out looked pleased.  Good.  He was looking forward to good food in good company, especially the latter, especially after a day like that.  He had spent most of the morning in court and most of the afternoon in meetings with Internal Affairs, listening to their findings after having his life scanned and checked for security issues to make sure the scandalous involvement of a civilian consultant had not rendered him unfit for duty.  He would be presented with their final assessment the following week and he would be lying to himself if he tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous about it.  Right now, however, he was more nervous about being stood up and was just about to check his watch for the umptieth time when a shiny black car pulled up and stopped right before the entrance.  The driver opened the door for Mycroft Holmes who got out and walked right up to Greg to greet him with a smile and a handshake, appearing for all the world like he was meeting a business partner for a working dinner, and out of the corner of his eye Greg saw two smartly dressed women nudge each other and look at them appreciatively.  His smile widened.  Mycroft gestured towards the entrance, they stepped inside and were immediately greeted by the maître d’hôtel.

“Bienvenue, Monsieur Holmes, c’est vraiment un plaisir de vous accueillir.”

“Merci, Jean-Christophe, très gentil. On a une réservation pour deux.”

“Bien sûr, monsieur. Veuillez me suivre, s’il vous plaît.“

The maître snapped his fingers at a waiter, signalling for him to take over at the front desk for a moment, and led Greg and Mycroft to a secluded table.  He waited for them to take their seats, presented them with their menus and looked at them expectantly.  Before Mycroft had the chance to say anything, Greg asked with a friendly smile, “Est-ce qu’il y a des recommandations du chef?”

His pronunciation might not have been as flawless as that of Mycroft, but the maître positively beamed at him and started listing the delectables the chef had created for tonight, and Greg felt his mouth water.

“Mais ça semble superbe! Prendre une décision va être vraiment difficile, on doit y réfléchir, je pense.”

“Mais naturellement, prenez votre temps, monsieur!”

With a smile and a little bow, the maître turned and went back to the front desk.  Mycroft lowered his menu and lifted one of his aristocratic eyebrows.  Greg grinned a little smugly and said with a shrug, “Grandpère was French, my sister and her husband run a small hotel in Paris and I have two cousins in Aix-en-Provence.”

“I see.”

Another delightfully unexpected facet that was worth exploring.

They made their selection, choosing one of the chef’s recommendations for the entrée and main course but picked a dessert from the menu and allowed the maître to recommend wines for each course, even agreed to his suggestions and thus earned themselves a favourable spot in the man’s good book.

After their order was delivered to the kitchen, Mycroft leaned back and studied the man sitting opposite him, noticing the fine grey suit, the crisp white shirt and burgundy tie, not tailored but not of cheap quality, either.  He asked himself if there was anything that did not look good on the handsome DS.  Running gear, leather and denim, silk and wool.  Impossible to say which version he liked best.

Greg returned the scrutinising stare with one of his own and Mycroft had the feeling that very little escaped those dark eyes.  He remembered Sherlock making snide remarks about Lestrade’s intellectual abilities but so far Mycroft had not found evidence that the man was slow-witted or in any way inapt.

“Well, Gregory, what’s there to know about you apart from the fact that you enjoy the occasional cigarette despite your efforts to quit altogether?”

Greg made a small amused sound.

“Are you telling me you haven’t had me checked prior to meeting me?”

“You’re assuming correctly. I haven’t. I did run a back-up check, years ago, when your association with my brother started but that didn’t include much of a more personal level.”

“And don’t I remember that. You had me kidnapped and brought to a warehouse for an interview.”

“You were not pleased about that and didn’t fail to make it clear in a very unmistakable fashion.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Greg chuckled softly. “If I remember correctly, I called you an arrogant prick, amongst other things.”

“You did indeed. You then proceeded to describe how you were going to unleash the Metropolitan’s wrath upon me if I didn’t let you go this very instant.”

“And you seemed disgustingly unimpressed.”

“Threatening to set the police loose on me has long ceased to impress me. But to answer your question properly, no, I did not have you checked prior to our meeting. I would much rather hear your story told by you, and not reported back to me.”

A waiter appeared to present them with an amuse-gueule and a corresponding wine.  Mycroft watched in fascination as Greg’s eyes closed in bliss when the tiny foie gras with peach and fig touched his taste buds.

“This is marvellous,” he sighed happily. “Myc, you haven’t touched yours yet, really, you must try it. If this is an indicator of what to expect, I will die a happy man knowing I’ve tasted this.”

“Please don’t die just yet, Gregory, the evening has barely begun.” 

The little bite was good indeed, as was everything else that was served but it was nothing in comparison to watching Lestrade savour his food.  Each course was carefully studied, the artful arrangements admired, the aroma inhaled and every first bite of a course delicately arranged on the fork before making its way into his mouth. 

“This is heaven. Thank you for picking this restaurant. I could think of no other place to make me forget this week so thoroughly.”

“That bad?”

“Don’t get me started, and don’t spoil it now, Myc. I haven’t eaten like this since Grandpère died.  He was a chef, you know.”

He started chatting about the French side of his family, about summers spent in Aix-en-Provence, about his favourite spots in Paris (“I could spend hours sitting in St. Germain-des-Prés, I don’t know what it is about that church but I love it”), about French rugby and the insanity of Paris traffic in comparison to the insanity of London traffic.  The tired lines in his face seemed to disappear, his eyes lit up and he began to look a great deal younger, and Mycroft found he couldn’t take his eyes off him, wanted to memorise every little detail, tone and inflection of the slightly husky voice, the gestures of the strong tanned hands, the exact shade of those expressive dark eyes, each lift of a chiselled eyebrow, and oh dear Lord, the small sounds he made when he tasted something that seemed especially to his liking.

Greg pointed at Mycroft’s plate.

“What is it? You don’t like your food? If you don’t pay attention, I’m going to steal it right from under your nose.”

“What? Oh, no, the food is delicious, and don’t you dare put your fork to my plate. I was listening to what you were saying.”

“How come I can eat and talk but you can’t eat and listen? Strange, that.”

Mycroft shrugged.

“Force of habit, I’m afraid. I’m very much used to paying close attention to what is being said, both verbally and non-verbally, and I tend to develop a certain tunnel vision. Besides, my brain works better if not all of the blood supply is needed for digestion.”

“Please tell me you’re joking. Is that a Holmes eating disorder?”

Something flickered across Mycroft’s face, briefly, but Greg’s trained eyes noticed anyway.  Eating habits, sore spot.  Sherlock mockingly asking about diet and cakes.  File away for further observation and follow up carefully.

“This will not return to the kitchen, Mycroft, I’m serious. If you don’t want to eat it, I will. And I should like to see you try and stop me.”

Mycroft smiled at that and finally started eating.  Greg gave an approving nod and continued talking. Only now about how he had taken up running again and Mycroft surprised him by saying that he, too, had been doing his share of running up to his mid-thirties.

“I had to keep in shape, you see, but I never liked it. It’s boring, really, and when my job became more demanding I couldn’t stick to a regular running schedule anymore. Besides, I got tired of being accompanied by security so I stopped.”

“I know you occupy this minor position in the Government and you can’t give away any details but what did you do before you needed watchdogs and panic buttons? I mean, were you in the military or in some sort of diplomatic service?”

“No, not the military and not a diplomat, either. Let’s just say it was a field that required a certain level of physical fitness to be able to cope with the necessary legwork.”

“And you took your martini shaken, not stirred?”

“I never had an Aston Martin for a company car.”

“But you were double-0?”

“Gregory, please. No more of this. You know I cannot answer that.”

“You just did.”

Greg smirked, and Mycroft grinned along with him.

Dessert was served, and the sound Greg made when he tasted the mousse could best be described as obscene.  He closed his eyes again and turned the spoon in his mouth.  Mycroft’s throat tightened as he imagined Greg’s tongue against the spoon, savouring the mousse, and he finally acknowledged the tiny spark inside of him for what it was.

_Want._

He closed his eyes, too, and forced himself to inhale-two-three and exhale-two-three.  That was… quick.  Somehow Greg Lestrade had short-circuited his defence mechanisms before he had even begun the due diligence.  He felt his heartbeat quicken, and when he re-opened his eyes, he found himself subject to another scrutinising stare.  Strange how those brown eyes seemed to be able to see right through his carefully arranged layers.  He held Greg’s gaze, and the other man’s pupils turned huge in response.  Was he that obvious?  He ought to be shocked by this lapse of self-control but right now, he didn’t really care.  Greg swallowed.

“Don’t look at me like that, Myc.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. Like you… want to eat me or something.”

And just like back at the pub, Mycroft’s skin started to tingle.  It felt as if he was coming back to life and he welcomed the feeling.  He was tired of denying himself the thing he wanted most, tired of pretending he wasn’t emotionally starved. 

“What would you do if I said that very thought had just crossed my mind?”

There it was.  He had voiced it, and he felt his stomach clench anxiously.  Greg inhaled with a sharp hiss and placed his spoon carefully on the plate.

“I would say,” he cleared his throat, “let’s ask for the bill, get the fuck out and hail a cab.”

Mycroft nodded, the tension in his stomach turning into butterflies.  He signalled the waiter for the bill and placed his credit card into the discreetly offered small leather case.

“Thank you,” Greg said simply, pride not injured in the least.  Next dinner would be on him.

The maître d’hotel arrived with the case and the receipt, making a dismayed sound at the sight of the half-eaten desserts.

“Ne vous inquiétez pas,” Mycroft said quickly, “tout était bien. Je suis vraiment désolé mais il y a eu un incident urgent.”

“D’accord, je comprends,” the maître sighed relieved.  Mycroft signed the receipt, adding a generous tip, and rose from the table.  Greg nodded at the maître and said in an apologetic tone, “C’était vraiment superb, mes compliments au chef, absolument genial! En tout cas, on va revenir.”

Outside, a cab was waiting for them.  Greg was a little impressed and got inside to sit next to Mycroft.  He gave his address to the cab driver and sat back.  Their legs were almost touching and each felt the other’s body heat.  The temptation was overwhelming and they stared straight ahead, not daring to look at each other lest they could not keep their hands to themselves, and making out on the backseat of a London cab was on neither man’s list of things to do.

When they arrived at Greg’s address, Greg paid the cab driver and hurried to get out of the car.  Mycroft was right behind him and followed him up the stairs to the front door.  As Greg fumbled in his pockets for his keys, Mycroft couldn’t resist any longer and bent forward to finally taste the skin of Greg’s neck.  Greg stood very still as Mycroft gently nibbled that sensitive spot behind his earlobe and leaned back against Mycroft’s chest.  Mycroft placed his hands on Greg’s upper arms to pull him a little closer when a phone went off, making both of them jump.

“Bloody buggering fuck, what now?” Mycroft muttered, and Greg blinked rapidly at the sound of that healthy curse coming out of the posh three piece suit man. Mycroft stared at the screen of his BlackBerry and said angrily, “You have got to be fucking kidding me”, making Greg cover his mouth to stifle a giggle.  He looked up sharply but grinned despite himself.

“Oh the joys of working in incompatible time zones. I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Un incident urgent, d’accord,” Greg said, disappointed but understanding.  He knew all about phone calls coming in when needed the least. “And so ends a perfect evening.”

Mycroft made a quick call to confirm the address where to pick him up and shook his head at Greg’s last sentence.

“This is just the beginning. I’m not done with you yet, Detective Sergeant.”

One of his hands snaked around Greg’s waist while the other pulled him closer by his burgundy tie.  Greg closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, offering his neck to Mycroft’s lips.  Mycroft took his earlobe between his teeth and playfully bit down, then touched his tongue to the sensitive spot and proceeded to nibble his way with lips and tongue along the underside of Greg’s jaw until he reached his mouth.  Greg sighed against Mycroft’s lips, lost in the sensation of feeling a man’s body this close to his own after such a long time, a tall frame to lean into, sharp angles and flat planes and the barest hint at stubble where there had been curves and softness for almost twenty years but it all came back to him in a rush and he welcomed it, so strange and at the same time so familiar. 

Mycroft nipped at Greg’s lower lip and teased his mouth open with the tip of his tongue, only to find himself willingly invited in.  He tasted wine and a hint of mousse and wine and… Greg.  Their tongues swirled around each other lazily and Greg’s hands slid along Mycroft’s shoulders, urging him closer as he moaned into their kiss and sucked on Mycroft’s tongue while at the same time grinding their hips together.  Mycroft’s fingers curled around Greg’s strong flanks as all of his nerve endings flared to life and his world boiled down to this.  This man whose clever tongue did very wicked things to his own.  This man whose lithe body seemed to melt right into his, emanating a heat that only served to nourish his own spark that had been hidden away for so long.

The sound of a car pulling up made them break their kiss, breathless and regretful. 

“Well,” said Greg, taking a deep breath, “you go save the world or talk some sense into whoever calls you at that time of day. I’ll go upstairs and take care of myself, or I’ll be hurting for the rest of the night.”

Mycroft huffed.  “Thanks for sharing this with me. I better not think about the images that conjures up until I’m done saving the world.”

Greg flashed him a naughty grin and opened the front door.

“Ring me up when you’re free for round two?”

“I most definitely will. Goodnight, Gregory.”

“Night, Myc. And thanks for dinner. And dessert.”

Mycroft turned and walked down the stairs to get into the waiting car, and Greg turned to walk upstairs into his flat, both of them disappointed and elated at the same time.

_This is just the beginning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to xx141981 for helping me with the Russian bit.  
> Merci beaucoup to Clairette who was kind enough to go through the French bits and pieces.  
> Much, much appreciated!!!


	4. Chapter 4

They ended up waiting longer for round two than either of them had expected.  The untimely phone call had Mycroft pack his suitcase again and board another plane to take him to the one place he despised above all, spending days stuck in meetings with people whose ‘because we can’ attitude was like fingernails across a slate.  He hated being where he was and hated talking about observational skills to people who relied on software and apps more than on their own senses and real life experience.  One more ‘like, yeah’ and one more veneered smile in his direction and his patience would surely snap, so from the second day onwards he started his mornings with Tai Chi and went through three repetitions of the yang short form before getting dressed, and did the Eight Brocades Qigong routine the moment he got back into his hotel room, taking off jacket, tie and shoes, drawing the bow and touching toes then bending backwards until his pulse had slowed down.  It would not do to waste time and energy on things he could not change so he went through the days with clenched teeth and in the evenings sat down with his BlackBerry and laptop computer to go through his regular e-mails and get some work done. 

On Saturday the negotiations finally headed towards a conclusion, and Mycroft booked his return flight, politely declining any offers for help because being amongst highly trained and over-enthusiastic compulsive conspiracy theorists for over a week had made him dislike and distrust them even more, if that was at all possible.  He needed to take care of his travel arrangements himself, just to be on the safe side and to be sure he would be on the carrier he wanted to be on, taking him to the destination he wanted to go. 

He caught the red-eye back to London and arrived at Heathrow on Sunday morning in much brighter spirits, having slept a reasonable amount of hours in his luxurious First Class suite.  His car waited for him right at the airfield and he climbed in, grateful to be back.  A few phone calls later he had scheduled a meeting with his team for a briefing about what had happened during his absence, the gist of which had been presented to him via e-mail and web conference on a daily basis but there were a few crucial points he wished to discuss in more detail, and in return he wanted to brief his team on what he had encountered and observed while abroad.

Then he made the phone call he had been itching to make but had saved for last.

“Yeah, Lestrade speaking.”  The voice at the other end of the line sounded a bit impatient.

“Hello Gregory. Am I interrupting something?”

“Myc! No, ‘s all good, I was getting ready to do some running. Where are you?”

“In London, just arrived at the airport. On my way back into the City, to be precise. Got any plans for tonight?”

“I have one now.” The smile was audible over the phone. “Fancy coming over?”

The barely suppressed hopefulness made Mycroft smile, too.  “I should like that a lot.”

“Me too. What time can you be here?”

“I cannot say for sure, I have some catching up to do at the office.”

“You’re not serious! It’s Sunday, you know.”

“Sadly, not all games are played by the same set of rules. I’ll ring you as soon as I can leave but I don’t think I can meet you before seven or eight, if that is not too late?”

Greg snorted. “Myc, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m well over 18, I can stay up for as long as I like. And besides, I have taken the morning off because I need to run some errands, but those can wait a bit longer. So, if you keep me awake past my bedtime I can sleep in.”

The hint was unmistakable, and Mycroft felt his pulse quicken.

“Would you like to be kept awake, Gregory?”

“Are you offering?”

“I might be willing to submit a proposal.”

“Can I bribe you with dinner?”

“Sadly, I cannot accept bribery. Compliance, you know.”

“Fine, I’ll make dinner for myself then and if you want to join me, you’ll be welcome. How does that sound?”

“Perfectly agreeable. Off you go now. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your exercising habits. I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

Mycroft ended the phone call and permitted himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a few precious moments to daydream about warm skin against his lips, about a pair of smiling brown eyes and slim hips pressing into him.  With any luck, this whole unpleasant week would be out of his system in less than twelve hours. 

The car stopped in front of the apartment building where Mycroft’s town flat was located.  He got out and asked the driver to pick him up again in forty-five minutes which would give him enough time for a shower, a shave and a change.  He scrubbed the week and its exhausting meetings and tiresome conversation partners off his skin and the shaving ritual helped him focus on the schedule that lay ahead.  Standing in his walk-in closet a little while later, he thought for a moment and then picked a grey suit with blue lining, a matching pocket square and tie and a crisp white shirt.  Acting on impulse, he took a garment bag and packed a second suit and a small toiletry bag, underwear and socks.  In his experience, planning ahead and being prepared tended to avoid awkward situations, at least to a certain extent.

******

Greg stood in his kitchen and went through his list of things to be taken care of.  Shopping for dinner – check.  Putting white wine into fridge – check.  Tricky ingredients prepared and ready for use – check.  Doing dishes – check.  Putting away laundry pile – check.  Bed sheets had been changed a few days ago – check.  Shower and shave – _oh shit_.  Mycroft hadn’t specified an exact time, had merely given a vague hint at something between seven and eight, but he didn’t want to have to open his door fresh out of the shower.  Well, not yet, anyway.

He went into the bathroom, stripped and stepped into the shower cabin.  As the warm water sprayed over him, he laughed a little about himself and the fidgety state he was in.  As nervous as a bride before the wedding night, and nothing could be further from the truth.  He was anything but a shy virgin bride and after his divorce had enjoyed more than one occasional fling, not looking for anything serious, merely enjoying being back in the game.  He wasn’t all that sure now, however, not about his own intentions towards Mycroft and certainly not about what was going on in the other man’s complex mind.  Apart from being the first man to spark his interest in more than twenty years, Mycroft was a Holmes, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock’s older brother, mysterious government official reeking of wealth and power and way out of his league.  Seriously, what was he thinking?  What was Mycroft thinking?  Then again, even a government official was first and foremost a human being, and the version of Mycroft Holmes he had caught a glimpse of had proven to be a man of flesh and blood, too, seemingly willing enough and there was no denying that Greg himself was more than merely interested.

He wrapped a towel around his hips as he got out of the shower and wiped the bathroom mirror.  Out of habit, he reached for the electric razor but changed his mind and took shaving brush, cream and razor from the corner shelf next to the small cabinet.  The Holmes project was not something to rush into, and slowing his shaving routine down was as good a place to start as any.  He whipped up a nice lather, rinsed his face with warm water and used a gentle shaving soap to prepare his skin, and only then he dipped the tip of the brush into warm water, shook off the excess amount and started coating the lower half of his face with the shaving cream in gentle back and forth motions, just as his grandpère had taught him.  The razor blade smoothly disposed of the stubble, and he critically checked for missed spots when he was done.  None were found and so he went to his bedroom to get dressed.  After a brief moment of brooding he chose a white T-shirt and a dark grey crewneck jumper, put on a pair of jeans and black lace-ups, then went back into the bathroom to spike his hair up, just a little.

Finally he sat down on his couch with the Sunday paper, music player set to play his ‘Calm Down’ compilation.

******

Mycroft stood before the entrance door of the block of flats and inhaled-two-three-exhaled-two-three before pressing the button next to the small nametag saying ‘Lestrade’.  The door buzzed open and he stepped into the hallway.  Greg’s flat was on the third floor so he didn’t bother getting the lift and took the stairs instead to find himself greeted by the sight of a smiling Greg leaning against the barrister, the door to his flat behind him wide open.  He smiled back but tsked at the sight of the open door.

“Not afraid of locking yourself out?”

“Nah,” the smile deepened, “I can do wonders with a paperclip and a credit card. I’m a police officer, remember?”

“And you happen to have paper clip and credit card on you?”

“Not right now, no I don’t. But you certainly do, being armed with briefcase and all.” He motioned towards the door. “Come on in, and welcome to my humble abode.”

Mycroft followed him inside and stood in the hall, waiting for Greg to close the door.  He held up his garment bag.

“Where may I put this?”

Greg’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t mean to ask outside, but please don’t tell me there has been another incident and you have to leave in an hour or so.”

“Quite the contrary. You mentioned having taken tomorrow morning off, so I took the liberty of clearing my schedule, too. I won’t have to be back at the office before noon, and I thought…” his voice trailed off, with just a touch of both uncertainty and hope, and for a fleeting moment he wondered whether he had presumed too much but the sight of Greg’s face lighting up quickly wiped away whatever nagging doubts he might have harboured.

“Let me hang it up in the bedroom. Do I need to take the suit out or is there… ah.”  He found the folding mechanism. “Back in a moment. Kitchen’s over there. I’ll start making dinner right away, alright? I’m starving.”

Mycroft nodded but patiently waited for Greg to return. 

“Want to see the flat first? No much of a tour, really.” He pointed. “Living room, bathroom, bedroom, kitchen. Done. Humble, like I said.” Acting on instinct, he leaned in and placed a light kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”

Funny how quickly a whole week could dissolve into thin air.  Before the slightly stunned Mycroft could react, however, Greg turned and vanished through a door.  With a smile that didn’t seem to want to leave his face, he followed and found himself in a kitchen that was small but cleverly set up.  A gas stove stood in the left corner, cupboards to the right and against the adjoining wall with sink and draining board under the window, refrigerator next to the door.  The kitchen utensils most frequently used were hung up on the wall, along with an impressive knife rack, and the utensils that needed to be immediately available such as spatula, tongs, ladle and mixing spoons hung within easy reach underneath the cooking hood.  A small island stood in the middle, laid out with cutlery, wineglasses, napkins and plates with two wooden stools pulled out from underneath.

Greg took a bottle of wine, broccoli and a small parcel out of the fridge, placed both on the counter and opened one of the cupboards to reach for a tier steamer, then turned to face Mycroft with a concerned look on his face.

“I forgot to ask you – any food allergies I should be aware of? I was going to make some salmon with broccoli and couscous, that OK with you?”

An auburn eyebrow was arched in surprise.

“Salmon and broccoli and couscous?”

“What, did you expect me to throw you a raw steak or some limp pasta?”

“Weeell, Lestrade,” Mycroft drawled, pronouncing it Les-trade, “I sure would have taken you for a meat and potato kinda guy.”

“What was that?” Greg peered at him. “You going to dude me or something?”

Mycroft took off his jacket, hung it over the corner of the kitchen door, sank down on one of the stools and sighed.

“You have no idea how many dudes I’ve had to endure this past week.” He took out his cufflinks and started rolling up his sleeves.  Greg watched in fascination and thought his kitchen had never looked as good as it did now, with Mycroft Holmes in it.  “No food allergies.”

“More like a dude allergy then?” Greg laughed at the disgusted glance that was bestowed upon him. “Yeah, stupid pun, sorry. So, wanna tell me about your week? I mean the parts that you can actually talk about?”

He turned around to put water into the steamer and placed it on the stove after he had made the flames spring to life.  While he was waiting for the water to boil, he took a small plastic dish that held something red out of the fridge and placed it next to one of similar size with equally unidentifiable contents, seasoned the couscous, put it into a small bowl and started removing the larger broccoli stalks.  As soon as the water was boiling, he poured some of it over the couscous which was then set aside.  The broccoli got tipped into the water and the salmon fillets were taken out of their wrapping and placed into the tier above.

Watching Greg prepare dinner had a soothing effect on Mycroft’s frayed nerves.  He admired the swift and sure movements that spoke of years of routine, not a single gesture hesitant or out of place, and he equally admired the view, the grey jumper’s sleeves pushed up almost to the elbows, revealing tanned skin and strong forearms while steady hands were wielding the sharp kitchen knife with practised ease, and those slim hips and firm buttocks in tight blue jeans were a sight to behold, too, evoking an altogether different kind of hunger.

Greg shot him a quick glance over one shoulder.

“Mycroft? You still there?”

“I am still here, no worries. Mind if I don’t talk about my week just yet? How about yours?”

A groan was the answer to that.

“I’d rather not. Change of subject, please? Would you open the wine?” He pointed to the corkscrew that lay on the counter next to the bottle.

“Certainly.”

Mycroft rose and obediently did as he was bid.  He looked at the label and again, raised an eyebrow in surprise. 

“A German Riesling?”

“Yeah, grandpère spent a few years somewhere in the Rhine region. Learnt a lot about German wines, even thought about acquiring his own little vineyard for a while but left when things got tense. So yeah, every now and then I like a good German wine,” he ended somewhat defensively.

“Ne t’inquiète pas, Gregory, nowadays’ Fatherland isn’t all that bad. Trust me.”

He inspected and sniffed the cork, then poured a small amount into his glass, swirled it, sniffed again and took a small sip.  He made an approving sound and poured the wine, ignoring the amused glance that was shot in his direction.

Greg checked salmon and broccoli and when he found their consistency to be satisfactory, he switched off the gas flame, removed the top tier with the salmon, drained the broccoli and ran it under cool water.  With oil and some lemon juice he prepared a dressing for the couscous and mixed the broccoli and the contents of the plastic dishes and finally tossed it all together.

“Plates, please.”

For the second time this evening, Mycroft meekly obeyed and offered both plates to Greg who neatly put the salmon fillets and a lemon wedge on each of them, then added the couscous-and-broccoli mix.  Mycroft eyed the red seeds suspiciously.

“Is that pomegranate?”

“Yes. The original recipe uses dried cranberry but I like pomegranate better. The seeds are a bitch to scrape out and you look a bit like a butcher afterwards, but I just love to bite them and they add this extra flavour. There’s pumpkin seeds, too. Sit down and eat, you’ll like it, trust me.”

They sat down and just like at the restaurant, Greg smiled at his food, a little quirk that Mycroft found oddly endearing.  He raised his glass and toasted Greg.

“To the chef. Thank you for preparing dinner, und vielen Dank for choosing the perfect wine to go with it.”

They drank, and Mycroft carefully tasted his first bite.  His eyes widened as the pomegranate flavour mixed with couscous and broccoli and he met Greg’s anxious gaze with an appreciative smile.

“Very good indeed! I am delighted to see you’re a man of many talents.”

Greg visibly relaxed and accepted the compliment with a nod.  They ate in comfortable silence and Mycroft could not remember the last time he had felt so perfectly at ease and so very much… at home.  Sitting in Greg’s kitchen, on a wooden stool at a small kitchen island that served as a makeshift table when needed, did more to calm him down than all of his Tai Chi and Qigong exercises together.  The light dish was just the right amount, too, and he felt pleasantly sated but not full.  He voiced as much and Greg suggestively wiggled his eyebrows in response.

“I was not my intention to stuff you. I have a plan or two, you see, and a full stomach would not be helpful.”

Mycroft laughed at that.

“Oh dear, I’m doomed. Somebody help me, please.”

“Too late now, Holmes. You’re mine.”

“Is that a certain streak of possessiveness that I am spotting here, Detective Sergeant?”

“Yes and no. I only take what is given freely. I don’t believe in forcing myself upon anybody.”

“Let me assure you that no force will be needed. I am here of my own free will.”

Greg’s brown eyes darkened a bit further, and Mycroft felt his mouth go dry in response so he took another sip of wine.  Greg cleared this throat and stood up.

“Right. Let me clean up. I really hate waking up to a messy kitchen.”

“Are you that tidy in everything you do?”

“Well, I draw the line between being a cleaning maniac and keeping the kitchen neat. This is the place where I prepare things I plan to eat, so yes, I’m extra tidy in here. Grandpère’s rules.”

“He must have been an extraordinary man, your grandpère.”

“He was my hero,” Greg said simply. “The best and wisest and coolest man you can think of, and good Lord would I have needed his advice this past year. I miss him more than you can imagine. He passed away nine years ago, and I never cried so much in my entire life. I still dream of him, you know.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to reply to that so he merely placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder.  Greg briefly leaned into the touch but proceeded to pile up the dishes to be washed and get the dishwater temperature just right.

“Need help with that?” Mycroft offered.

“No,” Greg shook his head. “Done in a minute. You lean against the wall and look dashing.”

The remark earned him a startled laugh but yet again, Mycroft did as told, the fact that for once he was not the one solely in charge of everything turning him on just a bit.  Still…

“Nobody has ever called me dashing before.”

“What?” Greg looked up from the dishes. “What do people usually call you?”

“Oh, at the office they call me the ice man. Strictly behind my back, of course, but I have ways and means to find out about things. On a more personal level, I’ve been called a beanstalk, and been on the receiving end of a variety of remarks about freckled skin and a receding hairline.”  It was delivered in a light tone but Greg noticed the rigidity in the other man’s posture and the fleeting look of hurt that flickered across his face.

“Well,” he said in a firm voice, “I think freckles are hot, and we’ll see about beanstalk when I’m done wrapping myself around you. Besides, you’re not that much taller than me so you don’t really qualify as beanstalk anyway.”

“I used to be a gangly and skinny teenager.”

“But you’re not a teenager anymore, and I don’t see anything gangly about you.”

Mycroft found himself subject to a scrutinizing stare, the kind that he himself quite frequently used, and observant eyes slowly travelled along his body, taking in every detail from said receding hairline down to his polished leather shoes.  He shifted a little uneasily, not used to being so closely examined.  _Freckles are hot?_   Indeed.  He lifted his chin and met Greg’s eyes defiantly.

“What do you see, then?”

Greg finished washing up and pulled the plug to empty the sink, dishes neatly placed on the drying rack, started as if to say something but wiped the kitchen counter and island first.  Only after he had washed his hands and dried them on a kitchen towel, he moved to stand before Mycroft, a mere few inches away.

“I see dessert,” he said in a husky voice. “You know, I had planned to do this properly, dinner and wine and espresso, then over to the living room for a nice conversation and maybe a little snogging. But then you,” he poked Mycroft’s chest, “you show up with an overnight bag, all posh and beautiful and tell me about your freckles, and it does funny things to my brain and I say fuck the wooing game, we’re clear on that anyway. I haven’t been with a man forever and if I can’t get my hands on your skin tonight I’m going to cry.”  He had worked Mycroft’s waistcoat open with deft fingers while talking, carefully unhooked the chain of the pocket watch from the buttonhole, placed the watch on the kitchen island and now used the waistcoat to pull him closer.  “No need for protocol, we’re both past our dancing days, right?”

“Shakespeare, dear me,” murmured Mycroft against his lips and finished the quote, “how long is't now since last yourself and I were in a mask?”

Greg’s low chuckle vibrated between them.  “Let’s play.”  Their mouths met in an unhurried kiss, each bold stroke of a tongue met by soft suction, getting reacquainted with long-denied needs and desires.  Mycroft cupped Greg’s face with his hands while one of Greg’s snaked around Mycroft’s waist to come to rest underneath the waistcoat and the other one curled around his hipbone, and when Greg moaned into their kiss, forcefully grabbing and probably wrinkling the expensive fabric of his shirt into a sad state, pushing himself forward, a little voice in Mycroft's head started whispering that this might well turn into something more than either of them had bargained for.

“Bedroom?” he asked tentatively and was rewarded with the sight of pupils flaring wide and being pulled across the hall into the bedroom which, too, was relatively small but the bed wasn’t, and Greg quickly switched on the reading lamp and twisted its shade against the ceiling so the light was a bit more subdued.  He stepped up towards Mycroft and took one of his hands into his own.

“You’re here,” he said in a voice thick with longing. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” as if Mycroft was a prize to be treasured, the greatest joy and reward he could think of, and Mycroft found himself to be at a loss for words and reached for his tie to appear a little less dumbstruck, but his hand was gently batted away.

“No, let me, please.”

Greg carefully and slowly untied the knot and pulled the silk tie from around Mycroft’s neck.  He let the expensive material slide through his fingers and admired its sleek beauty and colour.  The waistcoat was treated with the same attention, and Mycroft quickly realized that neither his honed observational skills nor his careful planning had prepared him for the gentle patience with which Greg peeled away layer after layer of the armour behind which Mycroft had taken up shelter for years, taking his own sweet time luring him out of his hiding place with kisses and murmured words of appreciation.  As the fine fabric of his tailored suit was removed, walls of ice and rigid self-discipline melted away under the soft caresses of experienced hands mixing featherlight touches with just the right amount of pressure. 

Greg himself stripped quickly and unceremoniously, shedding denim and cotton with a few swift moves, unwilling to wait a heartbeat longer before finally, at long last, naked skin met naked skin.  Of course he had known what to expect from a male body per se, the concept being not entirely unfamiliar to him, but he had not expected Mycroft to be so wonderfully responsive or his pale skin to be quite so warm, and he laughed with delight at the sight of the maligned freckles sprinkling shoulders that were broader than their tailored confinement made them appear.

“Ah but this is beautiful. I’m going to kiss every single one of these,” he promised, draped himself across Mycroft’s back and set to carry out his plan. “Anyone ever makes fun of these ever again, report them to me and I shall not hesitate to apply police brutality.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“I don’t think that’s what ‘Total Policing’ is supposed to refer to, and besides, rest assured that not too many people get to see me like this.”

“Good,” Greg growled, “because if it were otherwise, not even your finest spooks would be safe from me. I’m not a sharing person.”  

He pressed himself against Mycroft’s backside, leaving no doubt about his intentions.  Mycroft let out a husky moan and with surprising strength twisted around so he came to lie on his back.  He placed both of his hands on Greg’s buttocks and with a subtle shift aligned their erections.

“Neither am I,” he said. “I will have anyone deported who tries to touch this, male or female, unless we both agree we’re done with each other.”

Greg laughed. “Now wait, you can’t seriously have people deported nowadays.”

“Try me,” Mycroft said in a firm voice.

“I will, and I’m going to start right now. And what’s this nonsense about us being over when we haven’t even started yet? Seriously, Myc, you have no idea how much I want you right now.”

Mycroft rolled his hips and in a voice that had the quality of dripping honey said lazily, “I think I have an idea.”  He gasped when Greg bit down on his shoulder without warning, applying enough suction to leave a mark.  The sensation shot along his spine and straight into his cock which twitched against Greg’s.  Greg lifted his head from Mycroft’s shoulder and with mock surprise said, “Oh hello there!”  A strong and somewhat rough hand skimmed down the pale torso and closed around Mycroft’s cock, making him moan and arch up.  With a breathless little laugh Greg announced, “This is it. I am so going down on you now.”  He slid down and left a trail of kisses and bites on his way.  Mycroft’s breath became more laboured and a whimpering sound escaped his lips when Greg licked his shaft in one swift stroke, lapping at the moist tip, and he covered his mouth in embarrassed mortification.  Greg looked up and lightly slapped his wrists.

“Don’t. Please. Let me hear you so I know I’m doing it right. I haven’t done this in a while, you know, and a little feedback would be appreciated.”

Mycroft nodded silently.

“Oh, and one other thing. Like I said, it’s been a while and I might not have my gag reflex under control like I used to. So try not to push, and please give me fair warning. I wouldn’t want to spoil this by retching, OK?”

He winked and Mycroft said in a strangled voice, “You don’t have to do this, Gregory, please, I wouldn’t…”

“Ah but I want to, really really want to, so please let me.”

And with this, he closed his lips around the tip of Mycroft’s cock and sucked it into his mouth an inch at a time, as far as he could before his gagging reflex set in.  He stroked the underside with his tongue and Mycroft made another throaty sound when he saw himself buried in Greg’s mouth, dark lashes fluttering as his eyes closed, concentrating on what he was doing.  Maybe it had been a while but he hadn’t forgotten all that much about it and with wicked strokes of his tongue and clever hands massaging balls and perineum set out to destroy Mycroft Holmes’ iron self-control.  He let go of Mycroft’s cock for a moment, put his middle finger into his mouth and covered it with saliva.  Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat and he wordlessly spread his legs.  Greg laughed softly and his breath against sensitive skin elicited goosebumps.  One of his hands closed around the base of the shaft and he sucked the tip into his mouth again while the other hand slipped between Mycroft's bumcheeks, wet finger gently probing the tight entrance.

“Christ, Gregory,” Mycroft panted and opened his legs wider.  Greg’s finger pushed inside just a little while his tongue and lips worked the tip of his cock and his strong fist pumped the base.  “Please. Gregory. Dear God. I’m close. Please.”

Greg placed both hands on Mycroft’s hips and sucked his cock halfway into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head in shallow strokes.  Mycroft helplessly fisted the bedsheets as another tingle rocketed down his spine and every stroke brought him closer to the edge.  Greg reached for one of his hands and twined their fingers together, dark brown eyes fixed on Mycroft’s face.  It wasn’t the enthusiasm with which Greg had set himself to work, nor was it the wicked tongue or the sheer suctioning power that made Mycroft cry out and arch his back, despite his best resolutions to hold back, Greg’s warning fresh in his memory.  It was that last gesture, the understanding, the promise given, that made him tumble before he knew what was happening.  He came in hot spurts and Greg sucked in time to every pulse, prolonging the sensation until Mycroft begged for mercy.

“Stop, for heaven’s sake, Gregory, please stop,” he panted hoarsely.  Greg licked his lips and slowly slid up Mycroft’s body until they were on eye level again.  His face bore strong resemblance to that of a cat having licked a bowl of cream and he put his chin on Mycroft’s chest with a smug grin.

“Pleased, Mr Holmes?” he purred. 

Mycroft stretched languorously and pulled Greg in for a thorough kiss, liking that he tasted himself in the other man’s mouth.

“Very much so, Detective Sergeant. As I remarked earlier, you truly are a man of many talents.” He ran one hand over the smooth skin of Greg’s shoulders, drawing small circles which made Greg close his eyes in bliss. “There is but one request.”

Brown eyes opened slowly. “Yeah?”

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to have equipped yourself with lubrication and condoms? While I have every intention to reciprocate, I would dearly love your cock up my arse at your earliest convenience. Finish what you started with this very wicked finger of yours. Please?”

Greg’s mind went blank for a moment.

“What was that? I caught ‘cock’ and ‘arse’ but the rest escapes me.”

Mycroft pulled his hair playfully. “Which part would you like me to repeat?”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft, too many syllables. Just say ‘fuck me’ if that’s what you want.”

“Very well, Gregory, if you insist. Fuck me. Now.”

Greg hurried to reach across Mycroft and opened the drawer of his bedside table to pull out the requested items.  He held them up and grinned.

“Je suis prêt.”

Mycroft took the lube bottle out of his hands and snapped the lid open.

“Moi aussi.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Never before had Greg slipped a condom on quite so quickly, and never before had Mycroft spread his legs quite so willingly.  Greg held out his right hand and Mycroft tilted the bottle to squirt a generous amount of lube into the broad palm.  He watched Greg slick his fingers and bit down on his lower lip as more lube was spread over the latex-covered cock.

“Don’t do that,” Greg warned.

“Don’t do what?”

“Bite your lip like that. You want me to last for a while, don’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Dear God, you really have no idea how hot you are?”

Mycroft blushed furiously and shook his head. 

“Alright, Holmes, time to go to your mind palace – you have one, too, right? It’s a Holmes thing, I’m sure, so go there and do some serious spring cleaning.”  Greg nudged Mycroft’s knees a little wider apart and knelt between them.  “Or re-program that brain of yours, get some synapses to re-link or whatever you do to unleash your superpower, because this,” he palmed his own cock, “is not starting to ache because of an upcoming pity fuck for a freckled beanstalk.”  He slid a glistening finger down his length and spread his legs, putting himself on display.  Mycroft stared, transfixed, and drew a shuddering breath when Greg cupped his own balls and squeezed a little.  “This means want and lust, and it means willing and very ready for you,” his left hand travelled along the inside of Mycroft’s right thigh until it came to rest where thigh met pelvis, “stunning and hot and sexy you and you really should be able to deduce that for yourself because, well,” he laughed, “there’s no way I can conjure up a hard-on like that out of nothing, not at my age.”

He lowered himself until skin was on skin again, and his erection rubbed against Mycroft’s that despite its current spent state responded with an interested twitch. 

“And I’m dying to feel your hands all over me, your beautiful piano playing hands, you don’t know how much wankfodder you have given me that night at the pub. But for now I shall do as bid, and happily so.”

A slick finger found its way to the tight entrance and started circling it with teasing motions.  Mycroft shuddered and pulled his knees up a bit to offer a better angle.  He gasped when the finger slowly pushed inside and gasped again when it was curled experimentally, looking for and finding the sensitive gland.

“Please. Gregory. No teasing. I want you. Now.”

“But shouldn’t I –”

“No.” He grabbed Greg’s wrist and forced him to remove his hand. “I promise I won’t break. Just please, fuck me. I need this. Please.”

Greg looked down into his face, at cheeks flushed with desire, into eyes with pupils so wide the blue-and-grey irises were but a thin band, and without another word aligned his cock and started pushing inside carefully.  A muttered curse mixed with a hoarse moan but neither man could have said for sure who had uttered which noise.  Tight rings of muscle gave way to the intruding force, and by the time Greg was seated deep within Mycroft, both were panting heavily.  The hot tightness engulfing him threatened to overpower his senses and he drew a shaking breath.

“Christ, Myc,” he whispered, “I don’t think I can last long after all. You’re perfect, so fucking perfect and tight and beautiful, ah fuck, I want you so very much.”

He buried his face in the curve of Mycroft’s neck and inhaled deeply, the smell of subtle cologne and sweat only adding to his already lust-crazed mind.  He pulled out until only the tip of his cock was buried inside the tight opening and pushed back in, slowly, drawing it out for as long as possible.  His hand slid along Mycroft’s thigh until it landed in the hollow of his knee, and drew his leg up a little.  Mycroft bit his lower lip again, shifted and wrapped his leg around Greg’s hips, pulling him closer, wanting more.  His hands snaked up Greg’s arms and came to rest on his biceps.  After a few more slow strokes Greg lost himself in the strange beauty that was Mycroft Holmes, and set a pace that had Mycroft cry out and arch his back once more.  He buried his long fingers in salt and pepper hair, tilted Greg’s head to one side and licked along the strong neck with a swift cat-like stroke, just as he had wanted to outside the pub.  Greg hissed.

“Do that again and I’m done,” he managed to choke out.  With a wicked grin Mycroft lifted his head and licked once more, and with a little twirl of his tongue teased the sensitive spot behind the ear.  Then he took the earlobe between his lips and sucked, just hard enough to make Greg lose his rhythm.  His thrusts became harder and more erratic, and yet Mycroft met him stroke for stroke, his hands on Greg’s buttocks, pulling him closer still, welcoming the brute force with which Greg’s hips snapped against him.  It was just the right amount of pain to yank him out of his state of self-denial, of years of refusing to acknowledge his basic needs and wants.  Greg shouted his release with a hoarse cry and with one last jerky thrust spilled himself into the condom, his cock twitching and pulsing inside the tight channel it was buried in.  When he was spent, he dropped bonelessly on top of Mycroft who caught his dead weight in a sure embrace, not seeming to mind one bit.

As soon as Greg’s breath had slowed down, Mycroft cleared his throat and said gently, “You might want to pull out and remove the condom before it, ah, accidentally slips off and we have to consider a trip to the A&E. I would so hate to add to their statistics of embarrassing copulation accidents.”

This time, Greg had no difficulties making out the many syllables.  He hastily reached down between them, placed two fingers on the condom to hold it in place and pulled out carefully.  With sure hands, he removed the latex, knotted it neatly, put it into a handkerchief and placed it on the floor.  Mycroft watched with mild interest.

“Another one of grandpère’s rules?”

“No,” he turned so he came to lie on his side, facing Mycroft, “this one’s mine. It’s one of the most disgusting things in the world, stepping on a full condom by accident. Trust me. Been there, done it. Made me want to throw up.”

“Squish,” said Mycroft mischievously, and Greg started laughing.  They looked at each other and fell into a hysterical laughing fit that soon had them in tears.  Each time they were about to calm down, it took but one look and it started all over again.  They laughed about the condom remark, they laughed about themselves tumbling into bed with each other like horny twenty-somethings, they laughed with joy and gratitude, and they laughed because neither of them had had an awful lot to laugh about over the course of the last year. 

“Come here, you,” Greg said when he was finally able to speak again, and pulled Mycroft close.  He put their foreheads together and whispered, “I’m so glad you’ll stay the night.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and held his breath, not trusting his voice.  When he had agreed to the night at the pub he had not expected any of this to happen.  Not just the sex, which was great, but being welcome and feeling wanted, not for his intellectual abilities or as a trophy to be displayed, but as just another human being.  The ‘lads’ had had no idea who he was and had treated him as one of their own, and Greg…

“So am I,” he whispered back and kissed the tip of Greg’s nose.  Greg gave a content sigh and with a light touch brushed his thumbs across Mycroft’s eyelids.

“Sleep now, love, you look dead tired. Must have been a long day, catching a plane and spending the day at the office, and then be used and abused in the evening. I’ll make us a killer breakfast tomorrow morning, and maybe there’ll be time to play some more before we must get back into the daily grind.”

“Sounds good,” Mycroft agreed sleepily, a little angry at himself for being unable to hide his exhaustion, surprised at Greg seeing it, and all of a sudden not being able to keep his eyes open.  He closed his eyes and the last thing he noticed was a blanket being pulled up and over his body.

******

He woke up in the middle of the night, both because of a mild jetlag and the need to use the toilet.  One of Greg’s arms was flung across his chest and he carefully wriggled out from underneath it.  He tried to remember which direction the bathroom was and quietly made his way through the short hallway.  After doing what needed to be done he looked at himself in the mirror and a big grin spread across his face.  His muscles hurt in the most pleasant way as did other parts of his body, and there was a bright red mark on his shoulder.  He touched it in almost awe-stricken silence, the feeling of Greg’s lips and teeth on his skin as he had bit and sucked it into existence still vivid in his memory.  He switched off the light and hurried back into the bedroom to slip back into bed.

Greg had turned to lie on his stomach but immediately turned towards him, mumbled something unintelligible and again flung his arm across his chest.  Mycroft shifted a little and tentatively put his arm up and around Greg who shuffled closer, put his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and heaved a deep sigh.  A leg was flung over his and Mycroft found himself half covered by a sleeping policeman, and with his free hand pulled the blanket up again.  He gently stroked Greg’s hair which felt much softer than it looked.  Much like the man himself.  The former DI had always appeared gruff and to the point, harsh voice barking out orders, efficient and professional when addressing press and public, and yet underneath all that was softness and a tender, caring nature that took his breath away.  Where was this headed?  Was there even a chance for this to head anywhere?  A divorced, demoted police officer, former and not-sanctioned liaison to a self-proclaimed consulting detective who just so happened to be directly related to him?  How would it look, what would it do to him?  What would it do to Gregory?  He began to draw circles on the warm skin of Gregory’s back and tried to make sense of the shreds of thought shooting through his brain but drifted into sleep again before he had reached a satisfactory conclusion.

******

Sunlight filtering in through the closed blinds and a tickling sensation against his neck woke him again a couple of hours later.  Greg had managed to crawl even closer and tufts of hair brushed against Mycroft’s neck.  He chuckled which in turn woke Greg who slowly blinked his eyes open, not unlike a gigantic owl.

“Hey,” he murmured sleepily, “you’re still here.”

“Did you expect me to steal away like a thief in the night?”

“Mhm.”

“Ridiculous. Besides, I’m half buried underneath you, how could I possibly sneak away without you noticing?”

“Dunno. You’re Mycroft Holmes, you can do everything.”

Mycroft harrumphed to that and when Greg reached for his arm to drape it across his side said half-mockingly, half-accusingly, “You’re a cuddler, Gregory Lestrade. Who would have thought.”

“Mhm,” Greg repeated and twined their fingers. “Don’t see you running away.”

Mycroft thought about this for a moment and replied thoughtfully, “No, I’m not. Interesting, really.”

They lay quietly for a while, then Greg shifted and said in a regretful tone, “I hate to do that but I must excuse myself for a moment. Nature calls, you see, and I’d like to brush my teeth. Morning breath.” He made a face and got up. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t,” promised Mycroft but got up nevertheless after Greg had disappeared into the bathroom, to pull out his toiletry bag and check his mobile phone for messages, too.  His phone… where was it?  An irrational bolt of panic shot through him but then he remembered leaving his jacket hanging over the kitchen door so he quickly and quietly dashed across the hallway, not bothering to put his pants back on, and took the phone from the inner pocket where he had left it.  The screen was locked, password protected as always, and he shot back into the bedroom, climbed into the warm bed and rapidly scrolled through his messages.  Nothing that required his personal and immediate attention but he forwarded some of the more urgent ones to Anthea, trusting her to initiate the necessary steps and have everything lined up by the time he arrived at the office.

Greg re-emerged from the bathroom, dressed in an old bathrobe, and shot him a worried glance.

“Back at work, eh? Playtime over?”

“Quite the contrary,” he smiled, locked the mobile phone and put it on the bedside table. “I have secured the morning by delegating.” 

“Good. Killer breakfast, remember?” Greg opened his wardrobe and rummaged around in one of the shelves.  A t-shirt and pyjama bottoms were flung at Mycroft.  “Put these on when you’re ready in the bathroom. Much as I’d like you to wander about starkers, I’m afraid the mornings are still a bit crisp for that, and we don’t want important parts to freeze and fall off, do we.”

“No, we don’t,” Mycroft confirmed, took the shirt and bottoms, reached for his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.

“Nice arse!” Greg shouted after him and he slammed the door shut, laughing.  He thought about taking a quick shower but decided against it.  He was fairly certain about how the morning would be spent, and if last night had been any indicator of what to expect from having sex with Greg Lestrade taking a shower now would be a waste of water.  He used the toilet, did some basic cleaning up and brushed his teeth.

Greg, in the meantime, was setting the table, or rather, his kitchen island, for the breakfast he had promised.  He went through his refrigerator but dismissed his ideas one by one.  He wasn’t sure about Mycroft’s breakfast habits but had a pretty precise idea about his work schedule and while he would love to conjure up a mushroom quiche or a breakfast bake or even fresh waffles with fruit, he decided to settle for a tomato-egg scramble.  Quick, easy, light, leaving enough time and energy for the kind of savoury second breakfast he had in mind. 

He switched the coffee machine on, put a frying pan on the stove, put a tablespoon of butter into it, got the flame going and beat eggs in a plastic bowl, sliced the tomatoes and put bread into the toaster.  When the butter had melted, he poured the eggs in and scrambled them, stirring with a wooden spoon until they reached the consistency he wanted them to have.  He added the tomatoes and some salt and pepper and stirred some more.

A polite cough made him glance over his shoulder.  Mycroft stood in the doorway wearing his pyjama bottoms, his t-shirt and a pair of socks, auburn hair slightly tousled, tall, slender, looking comfortable and well-shagged, and it took quite a bit of self-control not to drag him back into the bedroom this very instant and leave the eggs to themselves.  He managed a nod instead, pointed to the frying pan and said, “Change of plan for a quick breakfast, if you don’t mind?”

With two long strides Mycroft crossed the small kitchen, grabbed a handful of hair and tilted Greg’s head to one side, licked along his neck and claimed his mouth for a thorough kiss.  The wooden spoon clattered to the floor as Greg wrapped his arms around his shoulders and melted into the kiss, eggs and toast forgotten for a moment.  It was Mycroft who broke the kiss and took the pan away from the flame.

“It would be a shame to waste perfectly good eggs and tomatoes,” he said with a smile in his eyes, “and yes, a quick breakfast is very much in order.”

“You,” Greg picked the wooden spoon up and pointed it at him, “don’t mess with me when I’m cooking, alright?”

“Not my fault you are so easily distracted.”  An arrogant eyebrow was arched and Mycroft sat down gracefully, and never mind the borrowed clothes and the fact that he was in socks, he still managed to assume the air of an aristocrat making an appearance.  Greg snorted, poured them some coffee and placed the mugs on the table, turned to switch the stove off, snatched the slices of bread out of the toaster, put them on the plates and added eggs and tomatoes.  He placed a noisy kiss on Mycroft’s forehead and put the plate down in front of him.

“Eat,” he commanded and sat down.

After a few bites Mycroft cleared his throat and said carefully, “There’s something we need to talk about, Gregory.”

 _Ah fuck._  Greg put his fork down and felt his heart plummet into his stomach.  This was what he had feared.  A well-worded speech about how all this was heading nowhere, that it was to be a one-time only experience, that the gap between them was too wide, a government official of Mycroft’s rank and a demoted police officer were a no-go.  His panic must have been written all over his face because Mycroft reached across the table and took one of his hands.

“No, Gregory, you are not a one-nighter,” he said in a firm voice. “That’s why we need to talk. Were it otherwise, I would indeed have stolen away like a thief in the night, and you wouldn’t have noticed before I was gone. You were right about that.” He gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before he pulled back. “But you must understand that if this is going to develop into something more permanent, there are quite a few things that need to be taken into consideration.”

“Do you want this to develop into something more permanent?” Greg asked cautiously.

Mycroft looked down on his plate and pushed his food around with his fork, struggling for the right words, once more caught between the habit of not answering directly and the urge to blurt out the simple truth.  He looked up and what Greg saw in those blue-and-grey eyes made his heart drum in his chest.  He swallowed and nodded.

“Go on then.”

Far from slow and inapt.  What had Sherlock been thinking?

“You would have to undergo a thorough, and I mean microscopic, security check,” he began but Greg interrupted him, barking out a laugh.

“Go ahead and pull my files. I’ve been put under an electron scan microscope over the past few months, I even had to do a medical, as if your brother had somehow contaminated me with a virus. I’m clean, by the way, and I mean clean in each and every aspect. I think they traced my bank account, credit card statements and phone bills back to a time before I was even born. Even my family and friends were scanned. And Internal Affairs informed me last week that I will be under continued observation until the Holmes case is closed. Next.”

He picked up his fork and continued eating.  Whatever hurdles Mycroft was going to present him with, he was not nervous any longer. _Not a one-nighter._   That was all the reassurance he needed, and he would tackle the question just when and how and why he had fallen for the older Holmes quite so quickly and so very deeply at a later point in time.

Mycroft stopped pushing his food around and put some in his mouth instead, chewing slowly and thoughtfully.

“Next, this needs to be kept discreet and in the background.”

“What, no dancing in the streets, holding hands and picking flowers?” Greg snorted again. “Please. I’m a police officer, and a demoted one, too, involved in a scandal that made the front pages. I cannot afford to draw any more unwanted attention to myself unless I want to be back in uniform diverting traffic in, well, Newcastle or wherever. And being seen with you might start tongue-wagging about me sleeping my way back up the ranks.”

Mycroft blinked.  That was something he had not anticipated.

“What was that?”

“Seriously, Myc, do you think I’m not aware of the huge gap between us? I mean, if you were just another politician or just another wealthy upper class bloke, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m not your social equal by common standards, but I’m no pariah either, my Da was a policeman, too, and my Ma used to be a teacher. I even have a law degree. But you are this crazy influential person who is so bloody powerful that nobody really knows or understands what it is that you do for a living. You drag security around wherever you go, and by the way I’m pretty sure there’s a poor sod sitting in a car somewhere right outside this building waiting for his boss to be done shagging. You have panic buttons, and you fly halfway around the globe because of a phone call in the middle of the night, and don’t ask how I know about flying around the globe, I checked the flights coming in after you rang and besides, you wouldn’t have been so knackered after a European flight… So yeah, I bet my super knows your face, too, and if I start waltzing about with you in my arms, it might look a bit funny.”

He gave Mycroft a sullen glare.

“What’s next? Your job is dangerous and being involved with you might make me a target to get at you? Well guess what, I work with homicide, and I used to be married with children. Whenever I worked a case that involved murder and child abduction and things that are more terrible than you can imagine, and I bet you can imagine a lot, I was mortally scared for my family’s safety. I dreaded coming home one night to find them murdered or my children taken from me. I’m divorced now but I’m still a father, and I still worry about my kids. And as for me, I’ve feared for my own life more than once and yeah, I’ve been on the odd hit list, too.” He had worked himself into a rage. “And your money? Well, your suits are tailored and you might be stinking rich for all I care but you know what? I’m not exactly Cinderella and I don’t need a prince to rescue me.”

Mycroft put his fork down, not hungry anymore. He rose from his stool, closed the distance between them and hauled Greg up by his bathrobe.

“What the…”

Whatever it was that he had wanted to say, it was efficiently muted by a fierce kiss that involved teeth slamming against teeth, a tongue demanding entrance into his mouth and his bathrobe yanked open by strong hands to be granted access to naked skin.

“Shut up at once and take me to bed, you fierce creature,” Mycroft said a little breathlessly, laughter and arousal mixing in his voice. “I got the message and we can discuss the fine print some other time, but right now I want to fuck you senseless, or the other way round, whatever you prefer, but make some good use of the energy you’ve built up inside yourself.” He gave Greg’s erection a pointed look. “A shame to waste perfectly good eggs and tomatoes,” he repeated his earlier words, “but a downright sin to waste a perfectly good erection.”

Without another word, Greg grabbed him by his wrist and dragged him back into the bedroom, lost his bathrobe with a shrug of his shoulders and yanked the t-shirt over Mycroft’s head.  Socks and pyjama bottoms were divested of just as quickly and Mycroft let himself be pushed back on the bed, not that he had offered any resistance to begin with.  Greg placed himself above him with his arms on both sides of his head and Mycroft opened his long legs once more so Greg sank in between them, and let one foot travel up until it came to rest at the back of Greg’s knee.  He looked up into his face and ran his hands lovingly along strong upper arms.  If his blood hadn’t pooled south of his brain, Greg might have noticed Mycroft going just a little tense and might have suspected something.  Things being as they were, however, he was quite unprepared when Mycroft's fingers curled around his elbows in a vice-like grip and the foot that had come to rest on the back of his knee was used as a lever to flip Greg over in one swift motion so he came to lie flat on his back, staring up into a very smug face.

“Regarding your statement about sleeping your way back up the ranks,” Mycroft purred into his ear, velvety voice dropping just a few notes, enough to make Greg arch into his slender frame that knew how to combine surprising strength with surprising speed, and wasn’t this a bit of a turn-on. “Mind telling me how you plan to achieve this when you’re so easily manhandled?”

Over the course of the morning Greg was provided with the answer to the question he had asked himself back at the pub when he went outside for a smoke.  It was Mycroft’s hands that made him scream his name, and this reckoning did not even take his mouth into account for that was something else entirely.  It was Mycroft’s hands with long, elegant and very creative fingers that touched, teased, explored, tickled, played Greg’s body like they played the piano, skilfully and lovingly.  Hands that knew how to grab him just so, fingers that curled inside him to massage his prostate with the exact amount of gentle pressure that made Greg writhe and swear and plead and finally throw his head back and scream.  His neighbours were getting quite an earful and he would be on the receiving end of funny stares for the next couple of days but right now, he didn’t care.  All he cared about was the pressure on his sweet spot and the fact that Mycroft was deep-throating him, swallowing around his cock with such gusto that the sensation shot like a lightning bolt into his balls and he came harder than he had ever come before, and he came with strangled sobs, hands balled into fists so tight that the nails dug deep enough into his flesh to leave marks.

Mycroft let go of his spent cock and entered him with one swift move, sliding in smoothly and effortlessly and Greg gasped, the sensation of being penetrated every bit as intense as he remembered it.  Mycroft gave him a moment to adjust and when he nodded, started fucking him in a slow and unhurried way, drawing it out for as long as possible, not wanting the morning to end, not wanting to let go.

“Come on me,” Greg whispered, “please. Make me yours. Come on me. Please.”

Mycroft stilled, not sure whether he had heard correctly. Dark eyes bore into his, and Greg repeated huskily, “I want you to come on me.”

Mycroft pulled out carefully and slowly removed the condom that Greg had not even noticed he had slipped on.  He rose to kneel between Greg’s legs, much as Greg had done the night before, and palmed his cock experimentally.

“Are you sure you really want this?” he asked in a voice filled with wonder.  Greg nodded, affirmative.  He knew it was a power thing, something like marking one’s territory, but that was what he wanted.  He wanted this powerful yet strangely insecure man to claim him and to know he offered himself freely.  He reached up and covered Mycroft’s hand with his own, and together they started pumping until Mycroft inhaled sharply and his cock started twitching.  Greg lifted his upper body, using his elbows for support, closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling the jets land on his chest and belly.  He opened his eyes again when it was safe to do so, and met Mycroft’s stunned gaze with a lazy smile.

“Why did you let me do that?”

“Because I wanted to. Because you are breathtaking. Because you’re hot, and I want you to get this into your head. You’re sexy as fuck, and you can do pretty much anything to me, except for real pain, bondage and defecation, that is.”

“Defecation,” Mycroft repeated, still stunned.  He was pulled down on a smeared chest and Greg’s laughter vibrated between them.

“I got my work carved out for me. I let you come on my chest and I tell you you’re breathtaking and sexy and hot, and all you remember is defecation.” He cupped his face and kissed straight lips that were just a little swollen and more enticing than ever. “Seriously. Holmes. We must work on this. Covertly, of course, with security standing by at a distance. Discretion guaranteed.” Another kiss, soft and gentle, the tip of his tongue playfully licking across those beautiful lips. “But now we must get up and shower because this sticky mass will glue our chest hair together soon, and wouldn’t that be something.”

Mycroft looked down between them and made a face.  He hastily climbed off Greg and stood before the bed, holding out his hand.

“Join me in the shower? Please?”

It would be a bit crowded but it would work.  Somehow, they would make it work.  Greg took the offered hand and scrambled to his feet, allowing Mycroft to lead the way, eyes firmly trained on broad pale shoulders dusted with freckles.  Yes, he had his work carved out for him.


	6. Chapter 6

“And you’re absolutely sure about this?“ Mycroft asked with a frown, lifting his eyes from the file he had been perusing and looked at the two men sitting opposite him.

“Sadly, sir, yes I am.” The Special Operations Adviser tapped his fingertips together in frustration. “We have been trying to get in touch for days, to no avail. Given their previous histories of unfortunate episodes it is fairly safe to say both Worthings and Farrell have gone AWOL.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Elimination, sir.” The Deputy Director General said with a firm voice. “On a personal level I would prefer to have them brought in for questioning, however, assuming this has been the result of long-term planning and both are among our best men I am afraid elimination cannot be avoided.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully.  His mobile vibrated but he ignored it.

“Very well then. Proceed. They must be removed but make sure to instruct your teams capture is to be preferred over elimination. Thank you, gentlemen.” Both men rose and turned to leave when Mycroft added, as if on second thought, “Please make sure the, ah, sibling rivalries between your teams will not interfere with the mission. We cannot allow our people to get in touch with their inner James Bond and if we want to avoid Worthings and Farrell to wreak havoc in their footsteps, we must stand together.”

“Understood.”

When the men had left, Mycroft pulled out his mobile.  The message consisted of three words only but they nevertheless made his heart skip a beat.

_Best breakfast ever. --GL_

He felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards and quickly typed a reply, modified it, then changed it back and hit ‘send’ before the habit of remaining within the lines of propriety would take over.  He was fairly certain Lestrade would prefer a somewhat cheeky reply over a politically correct one.  A discreet cough made him look up and meet Anthea’s polite smile.

“Ah, yes. Anthea. Please sit down.”

Anthea sat on one of the chairs across from Mycroft and shot her boss a curious glance from under long eyelashes. The softening of his features and the quick smile had not escaped her, brief as they were, but she tried to keep her face an impassive mask. Tried and failed, for an auburn eyebrow rose and cool blue-and-grey eyes focused on her, making her shift a little in her seat.

“Yes?” There was just a hint of amusement in that silken voice. No use pretending. She met his gaze and steeled herself.

“Sir, will you need me to run a background check on somebody?”

Her courage was rewarded with a little smile, different from the one she had just glimpsed, but it was there nevertheless.

“Yes and no. I would like you to access the Met files of Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, both the accessible and the confidential one. I understand Internal Affairs have placed him under further observation and I want to know why. In addition, I would like to know on what grounds he was demoted and I am especially interested to find out who took the decision to make an example of him.”

“Should I initiate steps to reverse the decision?”

“No, please don’t. I have reason to believe such interference would not be appreciated. Just provide me with his files and the additional information, and I will take it from there.”  He paused.  “Please run a background check on the officer in question and have him placed under observation as well.”

“How thorough?”

“Focus on his public persona for now, his private life is of no interest. I wish to be informed of the decision he takes, the cases he supervises, the officers he points out and so forth. This will be for my eyes only.”

“Very well.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and looked at his assistant through narrowed eyes.

“Whatever your assumptions, they will not be spoken or otherwise communicated. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir,” she confirmed, slightly offended.  Although it was not really necessary to point confidentiality out to her it didn’t hurt to gently pull the reins every now and then, even with her, and so he changed his expression once more into a mask of cool indifference and met her eyes with an impassive stare.

“Thank you. However, Lestrade is not the topic I wished to talk about. Have you been able to follow up on the progress of Project K?”

“Indeed I have, sir. Unfortunately there’s not much to report. Our contact has last checked in from Argentina where K currently seems to be infiltrating one of M’s major trafficking networks in the hope of eventually breaking it up.”

“In the hope?”

“You can never be sure. Nevertheless, the source did sound carefully optimistic.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, not entirely convinced. “The next time your contact checks in, have him report directly to me. Put him through to my personal number, no matter what time, no matter what day, no matter where I am and what I’m doing. I’ve been waiting for K to contact me but him being who he is, I cannot count on his reliability.”

She nodded her understanding and handed him the file she had brought.

“I have taken the liberty of putting together a small dossier on K’s whereabouts and actions he has taken, along with his coordinates, both confirmed and assumed. It is not a lot but it might be useful all the same.”

Mycroft took the folder and opened it.  Inside were a few pages outlining the facts and presenting the assumptions, along with transcripts of the contact’s checking in via phone.  The few photos were of grainy quality but K was recognisable enough, and Mycroft hummed approvingly.

“Thank you, Anthea. Good thinking. That will be all.”

On her way out she glanced over her shoulder but he had already begun reading the report.  She wondered in how far the former DI had anything to do with her boss being in such an unusually mild mood, for in a good mood he was, no matter how impassive he might appear on the outside.  No too long ago the SOA and DDG would have left the office in tears, figuratively speaking, the icy wrath of Mycroft Holmes upon receiving such news having sliced them to tiny bits.  When she had stepped into his office, however, Mr Holmes had looked… happy for the tiniest of moments, and although she was in no position to speculate about her boss’ private life, she still hoped she was assuming correctly.  She pieced the bits of information that she had on Lestrade together in her mind.  He was an attractive man, divorced, single, with known bisexual tendencies up until his mid-twenties when he met his future wife and stopped seeing men, father of one son and one daughter.  Pulling his files would be child’s play, as would finding out about current developments in his personal life.

******

In the incident room, Greg and Andy were trying to arrange and rearrange crime scene photos in a way that made sense when Greg’s mobile buzzed, announcing an incoming message.  He pinned a particularly gruesome photo to the top left corner of the board and reached for his mobile.  He froze and Andy watched with interest as his friend and colleague, a seasoned police officer in his late forties, turned red as a beetroot and at the same time started grinning like a madman.  Andy coughed and gave him a pointed stare.  Greg looked up from his mobile and instead of giving a verbal response, he turned the phone so Andy could see the screen.  In all probability he would hate himself for turning teenage girl and would beg Andy’s discretion sooner rather than later but right now, he had to share this or he would surely burst.

_I can still taste you at the back of my throat. Exquisite. --MH_

Andy threw his head back, pumped his fist in the air and made a whooping sound.

“Way to go, mate!”

Still grinning, Greg saved the message to the mobile’s memory card and put his phone back into his pocket.  Andy nudged him but before he could say anything, a cool voice interrupted.

“Care to explain which of the photographs has inspired such cheer?”

Like two schoolboys caught in the act, they lowered their eyes and Greg managed to say in a voice that was almost steady, “None, sir. I apologise.”

DCI Hillerton glared at them.

“Briefing in ten. Make sure there’ll be something to work with by then.”

“Yes sir,” Andy said obediently and reached for the next photo.

******

Mycroft and Greg managed to meet for lunch the next day despite the fact that neither of their schedules would actually allow for any leisure activities if not for the sheer willpower and grim determination with which both men managed to pinch off one precious hour.  As they followed the waiter to be seated they barely managed to keep their faces polite and their hands to themselves.  Greg studied the lunch menu and quickly settled for pasta with shrimp scampi and Mycroft chose a salad.  When the waiter left with their orders, they sat back in their chairs and looked at each other, finally dropping their masks of careful indifference. 

“Well,” said Greg with a smile, “how have you been?”

“Given the fact that it has been twenty-five hours since we parted, I’ve been remarkably well.” Mycroft’s eyes held an amused twinkle. “How are you holding up?”

Greg chuckled.  “Your text blew me away. I’m surprised my nose didn’t start bleeding from the sudden and violent rush of blood into my head. I bet my face was as red as a traffic light.”

“Oh dear. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”

“I embarrassed myself and it was not your fault.” He stretched his legs underneath the table and when one of his ankles touched Mycroft’s, he didn’t pull away, and neither did Mycroft.  One would have to look closely to see they were actually touching, but the tiny point of contact sent a pleasant heat wave through their systems. “I feel fucking fantastic,” he stated. “You are fucking fantastic, and I want more of this, and soon.”

Mycroft swallowed and searched his face for traces of false flattery but found none.  Greg’s warm brown eyes met his scrutinizing stare and held it.  His smile wrinkles deepened.  Mycroft’s hands itched to touch the handsome face but instead, he slowly unfolded the neatly arranged napkin and placed it next to the plate.  Fascinating.  He was fidgeting, and all because of a simple statement.  He cleared his throat.

“I can assure you the feeling is entirely mutual,” he replied carefully.

“Good.” Greg’s smile was infectious and Mycroft felt himself smiling with him. “I’m happy to hear that because I intend to do plenty of sinful things with you, and I don’t think I’ve managed to kiss all of your delicious freckles yet.”

The arrival of their drinks excused Mycroft from finding an immediate reply to that but the treacherous blush that crept up his neck – damn his complexion – surely told Greg all he needed to know, still he managed to meet the waiter’s polite smile with one of his own, nodding a dismissal.  He leaned back and circled the rim of his wineglass with one long finger, his smile deepening into a smirk when he saw Greg’s eyes follow the movement, mesmerized.

“That is quite an ambitious undertaking you have chosen for yourself, Gregory,” he murmured lazily.

Greg snorted.  “I’m in no hurry. It’ll take as long as it takes, and I’ll make sure neither of us will get bored.”

“I have no doubt about that. However, should the need for a break in between milestones arise, I might be able to assist in case you wish to, ah, free your mind and try a new approach.”

“See things from a different perspective?”

“Adjust positions. Change the angle.”

The tension between them was almost tangible.  Mycroft inwardly cursed his afternoon schedule and judging from the fire that gleamed in Greg’s dark eyes, that feeling, too, was mutual.  Greg heaved a heartfelt sigh, reached into his pocket, took something out and slid it across the table.  It was a keyring with two identical keys.  Mycroft arched one eyebrow, curious.

“It’s extra keys to my flat,” Greg explained. “Yes, I know it seems a bit quick but it’s not exactly like we’ve only just met, and I was thinking about the security thing you mentioned. I reckon you showing up like you did was not exactly standard procedure and your heavies were probably having some kind of heart attack. I bet my place will have to be checked for security each time you come by and probably bugged, too, and I’d much rather have your people use a proper key instead of breaking and entering like a bunch of thieves, no matter how professional they are. And the second key is for you. We both have crazy work schedules and there’s a good chance we might not always be able to see each other as planned. I would hate it if you left just because I’m late and you find the door to be locked, and I would hate it just as much if you decided not to come by because you’re late and don’t want to wake me up by ringing the doorbell or something. So,” he took a deep breath, “I thought it would be good to get this over and done with right at the beginning.”

Mycroft looked at the keys, unable to catalogue the small turmoil of emotions the simple gesture caused in him.  He wasn’t used to this kind of easy trust and openness for his was a world of tiptoeing and covering one’s tracks, of speaking between the lines and acting from behind the scenes, and the fact that Lestrade, a policeman who had surely seen more than his share of how misplaced faith ended more often than not, would trust him enough to place both his safety and his privacy into his hands, left him speechless and a bit dizzy.

“Myc?” Greg asked cautiously. “You alright? Listen, you don’t have to take the keys, I don’t want to put you under pressure or anything. I just thought it might make things easier.”

“It will, and you’re not putting me under any pressure.” Mycroft’s hand slowly closed around the keys. “You have merely caught me by surprise, I will give you that.”

Their lunch was served and Mycroft placed the keys in the inner pocket of his jacket.  He watched as Greg inspected his food, inhaled the aroma and meticulously arranged the first bite on his fork.  His eyes closed when he put the fork into his mouth, and Mycroft held his breath as his lips slowly closed around it, the memory of those lips around him making his throat go dry.  Greg chewed, swallowed, gave a happy little sigh and opened his eyes again to find Mycroft staring at him.

“What?” He brought the napkin to his chin. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said quickly. “I was watching you eat.”

“Oh.” Greg lowered his eyes to his plate. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“My ex-wife used to hate this. She used to say I should stop playing with my food and just eat like everyone else.”

“Well, I disagree. From what I have seen so far, your table manners seem perfectly acceptable. And I don’t see what’s there to hate if someone appreciates his food.”

“Thanks.” Another carefully arranged bite disappeared into his mouth. “See,” he continued after a moment, “all too often it’s just a limp sandwich on the run or a sad excuse for a salad at my desk and some takeaway after work, so when I get the chance to eat real food at a real table, I like to take my time to taste and smell and not wolf it down like I usually have to.”  

Mycroft looked down at his salad and took notice of the fresh green of the asparagus and sugar snap peas, of the delicately cut and lightly browned chicken breast artfully placed across the vegetables, and how the strawberry dressing added extra colour.  He slowly brought his knife and fork to his plate and followed Greg’s example to arrange that perfect first bite.  As he chewed and the flavours mixed to form a delicious composition in his mouth, he couldn’t suppress a delighted little hum, and Greg chuckled.

“See? It’s more than mere sustenance when you choose to pay attention.”

“Mhm.”

Apparently, there was a lot to learn from the Detective Sergeant, and there was no pretending he was not beginning to look forward to whatever this was developing into.  He happily tucked into his salad, paying attention to what he was eating instead of scanning his surroundings as he usually did.

“Myc. The bugging of my flat. How bad is it going to be?”

“I believe it can be kept to a minimum for the time being.”

“Meaning?”

“Main entrance, hallway, staircase, entrance to your flat, your hallway, sitting room, bedroom. I think audio devices will be sufficient.”

“Minimum. Right. How about the bathroom?”

“It will be indirectly linked, probably via a device by the outside doorframe. The sound of water flowing is not helpful, neither is the steam, and as for your bedroom,” he paused, grinning, “I’m fairly certain I can arrange for a device that can be switched on and off.”

“Oh. Good. That is very good.” Greg impaled a shrimp with his fork and pointed it at Mycroft. “I guess I will get used to it eventually but right now I feel a little queasy at the thought of some spook listening in while I’m having my wicked way with you.” The shrimp vanished to join the others.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at Greg, blue-and-grey eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Too late.”

“What?”

Mycroft gently tapped one of his cufflinks.

“Oh no.” Greg groaned. “That’s just so embarrassing. What a show I must have given them.”

“You were indeed quite vocal.”

“I’m not always that loud,” said Greg defensively.

“Shame. I was looking forward to explaining myself to my neighbours.”

“Oh. Oh!” Greg looked up sharply as the implication of those words sank in. “God, no, you won’t have to. I promise. But you know, it’s really your fault.”

“And how might that be?”

“It’s your freckles. And how you smell and how you taste. You drive me fucking insane.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said drily. “It pleases me greatly to find myself in the appreciation range of shrimps and pasta.”

“You’re an idiot, Holmes,” Greg nudged his ankle underneath the table. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re not at all what I had expected and it blew me away.”

“Oh? Explain.”

“Seriously, three piece suit, heavies and umbrellas? Doesn’t exactly spell fun and come hither.”

“It doesn’t, and it’s not meant to.”

“See? If we hadn’t met that day at Kensington Gardens, I would never have considered, well, this.”

“You wouldn’t have?”

“Mhm.” Greg thought for a moment. “I don’t know. There were times, when we spoke, when I thought, well, there’s something, but there never really was time and your shields snapped shut so quickly that I just couldn’t get my foot in.”

“’Snapping my shields’ is essential in my line of work, it’s part of what I am and what I do. But I truly am sorry to have shut you out.”

“Don’t be. Timing wouldn’t have been right. I was married and you were preoccupied with Sherlock, and it just wouldn’t have worked.”

“Timing is better now?”

“It is for me,” Greg said simply. “I’m glad you came to the pub that night.”

“So am I.” Their eyes met and they exchanged a small smile. “And may I add that I had never expected you to be such a beautifully unashamed lover. Your public persona doesn’t exactly hint at that aspect of your personality either.”

A dark eyebrow was cocked. “Then I guess we surprised each other.”

“Apparently so.”

Greg’s mobile went off.  He squinted at the screen and groaned again.

“It’s DCI Hillerton. I have to take this.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch.  His next appointment was drawing closer, too, so he signalled the waiter while Greg listened to the DCI, interjecting a few questions, and when they were presented with the bill, Greg reached inside his jacket to pull out his wallet, mouthing “I got this” and handed some banknotes to the waiter after checking the sum.

“Yes I understand. Yes sir. I will take over for DI Dimmock until he comes back. Has a team already been put together? Yes, I see. Thank you. I’m on my way.”

He hit the off button and grimaced at Mycroft.

“Well, I guess that’s it. I’m sorry but I have to run. A situation has come up, and Dimmock is at a court hearing.”

“That’s alright, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

Greg stood and grabbed his coat.

“Until next time, Myc. And I was serious about using the keys. Anytime, you hear me?”

“I hear you. Until next time, Gregory.”

They nodded at each other and Greg hurried outside.  Mycroft rang his driver, checked his e-mails while he waited and when his guard rose from his table in the corner, he rose, too, and casually strolled towards the exit.


	7. Chapter 7

Caught between a double homicide, a kidnapping and an attempt at blackmailing a supermarket chain, Greg hardly saw the inside of his flat for the next two weeks.  He dashed in for a quick shower and change of clothes, then ran back out, and only occasionally managed to catch a few hours of sleep.  He shaved at the office, ate there and napped there as well, whenever he could, all thoughts of exploring freckles pushed aside.

On a Thursday afternoon he made his way to his flat, dragging his tired frame up the stairs, cursing the lift that had chosen that day to be out of order, when the door of the flat opposite his opened as he was about to turn his key and a face surrounded by accurately arranged white curls peeked out.

“Mr Lestrade, if I may?”

Greg turned around to look at his neighbour and managed a smile, tired as he was.

“Hello Mrs Turner, good afternoon. Is anything the matter?”

Mrs Turner opened the door and beckoned him closer.  He suppressed a groan and followed her inside.  She led him into her kitchen, gestured for him to sit down at the small table and when she saw his tired face exclaimed:

“Oh you poor dear, you look positively drained. Would you like a nice cup of tea?”

Before he had the chance to reply that he would rather take a shower and catch some sleep, a steaming cup was placed before him and with an impish little smile Mrs Turner made a silver flask appear out of nowhere and added a rich-coloured ingredient to his tea.  He reluctantly returned her smile, finding it next to impossible to be cross with her.  He took a careful sip and felt warmth creep into his tired bones.

“Mrs Turner, what can I do for you?”

“Mr Lestrade, I believe your flat was broken into,” she announced dramatically.

“What?” He gave her a sharp look. “What makes you say that? The door is locked, I was just about to open it.”

“Yesterday morning there were two young men standing before your door, fiddling with the keys. I had never seen them before so I went outside and asked what they wanted. One of them, the blond one, said you had asked for the plumber to check the drains in your bathroom, and both showed me some ID with their names and photos on it, and the blond one had a key to your flat, too. His name was Stephen Thomson, without a ‘p’, and the other called himself Henry Mulligan, but I’m telling you, Mr Lestrade, those men weren’t plumbers.”

Greg felt his mouth twitch but managed to keep his face straight and the laughter out of his voice.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded resolutely. “All the plumbing in this building is done by Mr Rollins who is a good friend of my brother, and when I rang him up he told me there was neither a Stephen Thomson nor a Henry Mulligan working for him. Besides, they didn’t look like working men.”

“What did they look like?”

“They were wearing overalls and heavy shoes, but their hands were too clean, with manicured fingernails, and they had their hair done like bank assistants, you know, what my granddaughter calls ‘corporate hairdo’. They didn’t speak like working men, either. Mr Thomson sounded like he was from Manchester and I think Mr Mulligan’s from Ireland, but both sounded well-educated. They were very polite, too, and since they had a key to your flat and showed ID without arguing, there was nothing I could do, right?”

“That’s right, that was very good thinking. You never know what these people are up to. Why didn’t you call me on my mobile?”

“Oh Mr Lestrade, I couldn’t find your card with your number on it, and I didn’t want to ring the Metropolitan’s main desk. I am so very sorry! I seem to misplace things more and more often these days, I am such a confused old hen.” Her voice began to shake a little and Greg placed a reassuring hand over hers.

“Quite the contrary, Mrs Turner, you are nothing like a confused old hen. I will give you another card, I just don’t have any on me right now. You know, remembering all these details about Mr Thomson and Mr Mulligan is quite good, in fact, it’s excellent.”

“It is?” She raised her light blue eyes to his, and he winked at her.

“You see, they were supposed to do that. They are part of a new team in my division, and they are practising controlled breaking and entering into the flats of suspects,” he lied without flinching. “They were to enter my flat and leave something behind as a proof they were there. I was not supposed to know about it. Apparently, there’s still a lot to learn for them.”

“Oh!” A giggle escaped her. “Are you telling me I have uncovered trained policemen?”

“You have, Mrs Turner, and congratulations. A confused old hen couldn’t have done that.”

She beamed at him and he chuckled.  Oh, Mycroft would love to hear that.  His spooks having their cover blown by a 73-year old.  He took another sip of the hot tea and grinned to himself. 

“Your gentleman friend seems nice.”

Greg choked on his tea and started coughing.

“Excuse me?”

A knowing smile was bestowed on him.

“The elegant auburn-haired gentleman who came to visit a while ago. I haven’t seen him since then, is he travelling?”

‘Screw your bugs, all you need is one Mrs Turner,’ Greg thought to himself but replied politely, “No, he’s not travelling, at least not that I’m aware of. He’s a very busy man, and I haven’t been home much lately, as you certainly have noticed.”

“Oh yes, indeed I have.” She patted his hand. “You work too hard, dear. It’s a dangerous world we live in, so many bad people doing terrible things, and you poor policemen work so hard to keep us safe.”

“We’re trying.”

“Oh, it’s more than trying!” She added some sugar to her tea and stirred.  Then, with a sly smile she remarked, “I’m glad you have found a nice companion.”

“Well, so far he’s stayed overnight only once…” he halted and started laughing. “Mrs Turner, you are quite the interrogator. We should consider hiring you on a freelance basis. Yes, I’m glad, too, but it’s too early to predict anything.”

“You sounded as if you were getting along well enough,” she remarked casually, and Greg coughed on his tea again.  If she went on like this, he wouldn’t make it back to the Met alive.

“I am truly, deeply sorry for causing embarrassment, Mrs Turner, it’s just that I –”

She held up her hand, interrupting him.  “No need to be embarrassed and no need to provide details. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Lestrade, and what you do in your flat is entirely your own business. Just remember this is not a medieval castle with solid stone walls but an average London apartment building.”

“Thank you, Mrs Turner, I will try to keep it in mind,” he said meekly.

She patted his hand again.

“It’s quite alright, I was young once, too, and both of you are such good-looking men. Small wonder you got a bit carried away. You see, my sister-in-law rents out apartments on Baker Street and she has married ones. Such a lovely couple, positively adorable.”

“Yes, that’s good to hear, I’m glad you don’t think ill of me.” Greg put his teacup down and rose, just a tad hastily. “Please do excuse me, I really need to shower and get some sleep. I have to be back at the station in four hours, you see.”

“Oh!” She made a dismayed sound and rose, too. “And here I am, rambling on and on. I really am sorry! Of course you need your sleep. Forgive me.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive. Thanks for the tea, and for telling me about Mr Thomson and Mr Mulligan. Please, do sit down again, I will see myself out. Good afternoon, Mrs Turner.”  He bowed his head and winked at her.

“Good afternoon, dear,” she called after him.

 

Once inside his flat, he slumped down on his couch and started laughing uncontrollably.  With shaking hands he texted Mycroft.

_Do the names Stephen Thomson and Henry Mulligan ring a bell? --GL_

Then, on second thought, he sent another message.

_And did you know we are such good-looking men and probably positively adorable, if a bit noisy. --GL_

Still laughing, he went into his bedroom to get undressed and step into the shower when his mobile rang.

“Yes?”

“Good-looking, adorable and noisy? Dear me. May I ask where this comes from?”

Greg sat down on his bed and laughed some more.

“The very person who has pointed out Thomson and Mulligan out to me. Thomson without a ‘p’, that is.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. What is your maximum recruiting age for surveillance positions?”

“Gregory, what are you talking about?”

Greg cleared his throat.

“My neighbour from across the hallway, Mrs Turner, invited me in when I got home a moment ago, to notify me of two young men breaking into my flat. She gave an extremely accurate description, along with the names and evidence-based speculation on why Thomson and Mulligan were not who they claimed to be. Your people should do their research.”

“Dear me,” Mycroft said again, amusement in his voice. “Covert mission uncovered by the neighbour lady. What is the world coming to.”

“Never underestimate the super power of elderly ladies,” Greg said gravely. “She’s given us her blessing, by the way, and congratulated me on having found a companion, while at the same time reminding me this house does not have the walls of a medieval castle. Seriously, Myc, I wanted to hide in a corner.” A stifled sound at the other end of the line made him glare at his phone. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry. If only I could have been there.”

“Oh, you will meet her. I will make sure of that. She thinks you’re an elegant auburn gentleman and you seem nice.”

“Thank you. That’ll make me walk through the remainder of this day with a smile on my face.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Let’s say I’ve had better. You?”

“Yeuch.”  Greg made a disgusted sound. “I have some three hours of sleep to look forward to but I’m not complaining. It’s the longest I’ve been in my flat since we had lunch.” He sighed. “I don’t want to sound soppy, but I miss you.”

Silence.

“Myc?”

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m trying to think of a non-soppy reply but all I can come up with is, I miss you, too.”

Greg’s heart did a silly little somersault.

“With any luck, the kidnapping case will come to a close soon. Henderson’s team has taken over the homicide case, and maybe, if I’m lucky, I might get one or two days off, to catch up on some sleep.”

“Think you could set aside some time for me, too?” Greg could tell Mycroft was smiling, and he smiled as well.

“Let me see what I can do. Any travel coming up?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ve just come back from, well, I’ve just come back and I sincerely hope I can stay in London for a while. I’m tired of hotel rooms.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I can.” He yawned. “Oh God, Myc, I’m sorry but I’m really knackered. I need to take that shower and then get some sleep.”

“Yes, you should. Sleep well, Gregory, and I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

“See you soon, Myc. Bye now.”

“Bye now.”

******

Mycroft put the mobile down on his desk and stared at the opposite wall.  The urge to drive over to Lestrade’s flat was overwhelming and it took all of his willpower not to follow his instinct.  He was fairly certain he would be welcome but the other man’s voice had sounded very tired, even though he had seemed genuinely happy to speak to him.  It would not be right to take away even a fraction of the sleep that was needed so badly.

Two weeks.  It had been a little over two weeks ago that they had met for lunch, and the number of their encounters totalled a sum of four – pub, dinner, lunch… and that one night.  Oh dear Lord, that one night.  All of his senses had snapped back to life that night, all of his longing and needs, too, and suddenly he felt so very sick and tired of being alone all the time.  Yes, it was the path he had chosen for himself and he didn’t mind the working hours and the unpredictability, he wouldn’t give up his career or stop playing the game he so enjoyed playing, but it had taken only four encounters with Gregory Lestrade to present him with one simple truth.  He wanted a companion.  Wasn’t that the word the neighbour lady had used?  A companion.  Not just a lover for those weren’t difficult to pick up, but a partner.  Somebody at his eye level who understood and respected his work, who was not intimidated by power, who wouldn’t constantly battle him for it but who wouldn’t let himself be pushed into a corner, either.  Somebody strong and stubborn, a leader in his own right, able to give and take.

_It’s your freckles. You drive me fucking insane. You’re sexy as fuck._

Nobody had ever talked to him like that.  _Sexy as fuck._   That didn’t make sense from a linguistic point of view but that husky voice had found a way to override his brain and deliver its message straight into his system.  And nobody had ever obsessed over his freckles, although nobody dared make fun of them any longer.  He was no fool, he knew he wasn’t ugly but he knew he didn’t exactly turn heads, at least not because of his looks.  There had been times where his looks had left much to be desired but he had managed to gain control over certain tendencies and had finally reached a stage where he felt comfortable enough, but the poisonous arrows fired in his direction, the hurt and insults were anchored deep within him.

_You are breathtaking. Stunning and hot and sexy. I want you so very much._

He closed his eyes.  He had taken his share of lovers and had enjoyed them, too, but despite the physical satisfaction those encounters had offered, they tended to be somewhat staged, too well aware of position and positioning, of politics and appearance.  When he had told Lestrade he missed him, too, he had meant it although he wasn’t sure where allowing such sentiment would take him.  Caring was not an advantage, he had learnt that over and over again, had repeated it to himself until it became imprinted in his system, and yet, part of him wanted to let go of some of his old patterns and find out what else there was.  What was that worn-out saying about the longest journey beginning with the first step?  Spending a night at a pub had not been on his list of things to do but look where it had taken him.  Spontaneously showing up somewhere with an overnight bag had never occurred to him, let alone allow for nightly cuddling, and what pleasure it had brought, and how soothing it had been to feel Lestrade’s body warmth and hear his even breathing.

A knock on the door put his train of thought to an abrupt halt.

“Yes?”

Anthea stepped inside, with two men in her tow.

“Mr Holmes, the Deputy Director General and the Special Operations Adviser to see you.”

“Ah, gentlemen. Please take a seat. Anthea, please stay as well. Something in the gentlemen’s faces tells me they do not bring pleasant tidings, and an extra set of eyes and ears might be useful.”

The DDG nodded with a grim face and confirmed, “Unfortunately, that is correct. We have news of Worthings and Farrell.”

The SOA pulled his tablet out of its case and switched it on.  Anthea hooked it up to the projector and darkened the office.

“The situation presents itself as follows,” the SOA began, and with a sinking heart Mycroft listened to what might very well develop into a severe blow to their reputation.

******

When Greg returned to the station, Sally Donovan all but jumped him and dragged him towards one of the interrogation rooms.

“Quick, sir, come with me,” she almost begged. “This is going to be a catastrophe!”

“What is? Sally, what’s the matter?”

“They found him!”

“What, the boy?” Greg picked up his pace.

“No, the prospective kidnapper.”

“The student the boy’s sister pointed out?”

“Yeah, Mark Landers, that’s the one!”

“And why is it going to be a catastrophe?”

“Hillerton wants to break him and just said if we didn’t get him to tell us where the boy is, he would go in there himself and threaten to use certain violent measures.”

Greg stopped dead in his tracks.

“You have got to be kidding me. He wants to threaten a suspect with violence? This could get him into really deep shit.”

Sally nodded, her eyes big and round in her face.

“He’s gone mental, sir, you must stop him!” She lowered her voice as they were approaching the interrogation room.

“And what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

She shrugged, a little helplessly. Greg squared his shoulders and stepped inside the anteroom where he was met with an icy stare.

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade, how kind to grace us with your presence. I trust you enjoyed a little nap?”

“I did, sir, thank you. Took a shower, too, and changed my clothes.”

“Thank you for sharing this with us. Might I enquire about the colour of your underwear?”

“Black, sir.”

Someone in the background snickered but was brought to silence with another icy stare.

“Look at that piece of shite,” DCI Hillerton growled. “Sits there with his smug face and waits for his lawyer to swan in, and somewhere out there is a little boy waiting for help. At least I hope he’s still waiting.”

“Do we have reason to believe he’s dead?”

Hillerton gave a derisive snort. “Who knows what that sick bastard is capable of.”  He clenched and unclenched his fists.  It was that moment that the young man looked up and positively smirked in their direction, and Greg could almost hear the DCI’s patience snap.  With a few long strides Hillerton was in the interrogation room, hauled the suspect out of his chair and slammed his face against the wall.

“This is just the beginning, you sick little fuck,” he snarled, having lost all self-control. “You have an idea what we can do to your scrawny little body? How would you feel about lying upside down with a nice damp cloth over your face? Are you still going to be grinning then, or will you be gasping for air? Huh?” He shook him.

“Torture is illegal,” the young man choked out.

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

Greg stood frozen, just like the other policemen and –women.  Then he yanked himself out of his state of shock, shot into the room and placed a firm hand on the DCI’s shoulder.

“Might I have a word outside, sir?”

Hillerton glared at him.

“No you might not. You can say what you have to say right here.”

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s for your ears only. Sir.”

He tightened his grip on the shoulder, and much to his surprise Hillerton let go of the suspect and followed him back outside.  Greg closed the door and turned to face his DCI who had gone white with rage.

“How dare you barge in on me like that, Lestrade, just who the fuck do you think you are? Must I remind you who the boy’s father is?”

“I am aware of who the boy’s father is. I’m also part of this team, sir, and as such it is my duty to contribute as best I can. And in all honesty, threatening a suspect with waterboarding is not a promising approach. Especially not with the bloke’s lawyer on his way.”

Whatever Hillerton was about to say remained unspoken as it was this moment said lawyer was announced by the young constable who had waited outside. Hillerton straightened and pointed a finger at Greg.

“I am not done with you yet, Lestrade. This will have repercussions.”

 

In the end it was Andy who found the missing clue after wading through hours and hours of CCTV footage.

“It’s a houseboat!” His voice boomed over the heated discussions. “The boy’s on a houseboat!”

“What?” Several heads jerked up.

“Look!” He paused the sequence and pointed. “That’s Landers right there, and look, this looks like a houseboat to me!”

Greg cocked his head and squinted. “Damn you, Andy, you could be right!”

Sally was already accessing the boat registration, rapidly typed something and scrolled through the list of names.

“Here!” She tapped the screen with her index finger. “There’s a boat registered under the name of Ralph Landers, the suspect’s father.”

She moved aside so Greg could see for himself.

“It’s at Poplar Dock. That’s not exactly around the corner. Andy, do you think you can zoom in on the name?”

The image was grainy but it was still clear enough to confirm it was indeed the one that Sally had identified.  Greg grabbed his coat and snapped his fingers at Andy and Sally, taking charge once again, not bothering to stop for Hillerton’s approval.  There would be hell to pay anyway, why not add another shovel to the dungheap.

******

The next morning, however, turned out differently than Greg had expected.  Instead of being ripped apart by DCI Hillerton, Greg was ushered into the Commander’s office where the kidnapped boy’s parents waited to meet their son’s rescuer. 

“Sir John, allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Lestrade. He was part of the team that managed to track down the kidnapper and finally rescue little Matthew.”

Standing face to face with Sir John Allendale, Greg thought he looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place him.  He would have to check with Mycroft who most certainly would be able to recite Sir John’s entire family tree. 

Sir John clasped both of his hands with a firm grip and said in a deep, rich voice, “Detective Sergeant, words cannot express my gratitude.”

Lady Allendale gave Greg a shaky smile.

“Are you Greg?”

“Yes ma’am, I am.”

Before he could say anything else, he found himself fiercely hugged by the petite brunette.

“Matty said it was Greg who saved him and gave him a medal of honour for being such a brave boy.”

Greg smiled warmly at her. “I gave him my badge. Unfortunately it is not as cool and shiny as the American badges you see on TV but it did the trick.”

“Matthew has informed us that he, too, wants to become a policeman, just like Greg,” Sir John told him and Greg chuckled.

“We always welcome new recruits, Sir John. Please tell Matthew I would be honoured to have him by my side.”

“I will.”

“You’re good with children, Detective Sergeant,” Lady Allendale said softly. “Do you have children of your own?”

“I do, ma’am, a boy and a girl. They have moved to Surrey with their mother but I see them as often as I can.”

“Which probably isn’t very often, given your job.”

“That is quite right, ma’am, sadly.”

“Well, we don’t want to keep you any longer,” Sir John said. “We merely wished to thank you for bringing our son back to us.” He turned towards the Commander. “Please convey our heartfelt thanks to the rest of the team as well, for it was their joint effort that brought this to a close.”

“I most certainly will, Sir John,” the Commander replied with a satisfied expression. He looked over at Greg and motioned towards the door.

“Off you go, Lestrade, you’re cleared for the rest of today, and I don’t want to see your face before Monday. You look like you need some sleep and a decent shave, too.”

“Thank you, sir, that is much appreciated. Sir John, Lady Allendale, thank you for taking the time to see me.”

Hands were shaken and Greg went to see his DCI but found his office to be empty.  He bumped into DI Dimmock instead.

“Where’s Hillerton?”

Dimmock shrugged.

“Went off in a rage. If you want my advice, run before he comes back. He heard the Commander wanted to see you before he had the chance to give you a good yelling and didn’t take it very kindly.”

Sally came to join them.

“Yeah, you do not want to be here when he comes back. I hear you’re little Matthew’s hero?”

“For now. I bet he won’t remember my name by the end of next week.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Hero worship tends to sit for a while.” She clapped his shoulder. “Go home before it’s too late.”

"What about you? You worked as late as I did, why don't you get to go home?"

"Because you're Matthew's hero and we're not." She pushed him towards the door. "Never mind us, sir, we'll live. Go!"

Greg took his coat and did as he was told.  As he stepped outside into a bright spring morning, he thought he heard Hillerton shout his name but chose to be ignorant, hailed a cab and went straight home.

******

_I’m off until Monday morning. Going home now to drop dead. Care to come around for dinner? --GL_

Mycroft took his phone out and read the message as soon as he left the conference room.  He checked his agenda, then rang for Anthea.

She was waiting in his office when he entered.

“I will have to leave after the briefing. It would be much appreciated if you could clear my schedule until Monday morning.”

“But sir, the video conference with the overseas team…”

“… will either be held by you or our overseas friends will have to wait until Monday. Please express my sincere apologies and so forth and I will be happy to be of service but not before Monday.”

“Understood.” She made a note. “The briefing’s in ten, Room 3c.”

“Thank you.”

 

Three hours later he opened the door to Greg’s flat, stood for a while and listened, then silently went into the sitting room to place his small trolley next to the couch, hung the garment bag on the doorframe, slipped out of his shoes and shed his suit. He carefully placed it on a hanger he pulled from one of the trolley’s outer bags, neatly folded his shirt, took off his socks and slipped into the bedroom.  He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and when he had made out the exact position of the Lestrade-shaped lump in the bed, he slid in next to him, careful not to wake him up.

The very instant he put his head on the pillow, however, Greg turned towards him and flung an arm around him.

“You’re here,” he mumbled in a voice thick with sleep, “I was so hoping you’d come.”

Mycroft lifted his arm, just like he had done before, pulled Greg closer and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. 

“Of course I’m here,” he said softly. “Where else would I be?”


	8. Chapter 8

“Who is Sir John Allendale?“ Greg asked.  His eyes were closed, his head was resting on his lover’s ribcage and he was listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Mhm?” came a somewhat absent-minded reply.  Greg looked up and couldn’t suppress a smug grin.  Mycroft Holmes was the very image of post-coital bliss with his eyes half closed, his hair tousled and his lips swollen from some very intense kissing and doing various other things to Greg’s body that, if nothing else, only added further evidence to Greg’s firm belief that Mycroft excelled at whatever he chose to concentrate on.  Not that his pleasantly worn out body was complaining.  When Mycroft's fingers started caressing the nape of his neck with small circling motions, Greg buried his nose in auburn chest hair and inhaled the heady mix of soap and sweat and lovemaking and Mycroft. 

“What was that?” The voice sounded a bit more awake as that remarkable brain was switched back on.

Greg put his chin on Mycroft’s chest. “Sir John Allendale,” he repeated. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“It most certainly does. Sir John is Her Majesty’s Solicitor General for England and Wales.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Minus the preposition I do recall doing just that a little while ago.”

Greg bit down on soft flesh and Mycroft yelped.

“Gregory!”

“Mycroft!”

They looked at each other and it was Greg who lost the staring game.  He wrapped his arms around the pale torso and tried his best to appear rueful.  Mycroft sighed and stopped pretending to be angry.

“Those sad brown eyes will get you anything anywhere, am I right?”

A soft chuckle was the answer to that, and Mycroft resumed caressing the nape of Greg’s neck and watched as his dark eyes closed.  He envied the natural ease with which Greg gave in to physical pleasure, whether it was the appreciation of good food or sex, there was nothing staged about him.  He had arched shamelessly into Mycroft’s touches, and it hadn’t been long before Mycroft’s composure had cracked and he had panted just as heavily as the man underneath him.  He kissed the top of Greg’s head.

“Why are you asking me about Sir John?”

“Oh, he was at the station this morning and wanted to see me.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that we saved his little son last night and I was the one who carried Mattie outside.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, are you trying to tell me you didn’t know about that?”

“About the abduction of young Matthew? Of course I knew about that. DCI Hillerton was in charge of the investigation, is that correct?”

Greg snorted. “Oh yeah, and was he ever.”

“What are you not saying?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. It was pretty tense, let me give you that, and I’m glad the kid is safe and back with his parents.”

“And Sir John himself came to the Metropolitan police station to thank you in person?”

“Well,” Greg shrugged his shoulders, “I thought it was nice of him. Seems I’m Matthew’s hero and he wants to be a policeman, too. Lady Allendale hugged me.”

“Did she now.”

“So?”

“Being in the Solicitor General’s favour is not a bad thing, and Lady Allendale is not entirely without influence, either.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my occasionally frightfully ignorant love, it will not hurt your somewhat harshly treated reputation to be the name attached to the rescue of Sir John’s only child.”

“But it was Andy who found out about the houseboat, and Sally –”

“Shhh.” Mycroft put a finger to his mouth. “It most certainly was good teamwork, and I’m sure it will not be overlooked, but your name stuck. Don’t underestimate that.”

“Hm.” Greg kissed the tip of the finger lying across his mouth.  Then he slid upwards so their faces were at eye level. “Myc.”

“Yes?”

“Did you just call me your love?”  Their noses were almost touching and Greg watched from up close as a myriad of emotions flickered across Mycroft’s face.  The one that lingered was that of amazement.

“I believe I did,” Mycroft said slowly.  Then he didn’t say anything for a while.

******

They agreed to spend the rest of the weekend at Mycroft’s flat and when Mycroft’s driver – Jeremy, as Greg had found out in the meantime – came to pick them up, he handed a plain white envelope to Mycroft.

“You asked for this to be handed over immediately upon receipt, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft took it, peered inside and passed its content on to Greg who eyed the white plastic card with a blank stare.

“It’s a swipe card,” Mycroft explained. “My flat does not have a key but a card. I thought it was time I returned the favour.”

Greg turned the card in his hand.

“Thanks. Are you comfortable with that? You don’t have to feel obliged, you know I. didn’t give you my key with that in mind.”

“Nonsense. I never do things out of sheer obligation, and most certainly not where my private life is concerned. I trust you, Gregory. Unequivocally,” he added, and gave Greg’s hand a squeeze.

When they arrived at the apartment building, Greg looked a little shocked but regained his composure with admirable speed.

“Wow. That’s… a big house. Tell me again why we haven’t been here before? Kinda dwarfs my flat, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the retort was delivered in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion. “Besides, I don’t own the house but one flat so please, don’t fret.”

Inside, they were greeted by the concierge, a distinguished man in his mid-fifties.

“Mr Holmes, good afternoon.”

“Mr Stubbs, pleasure to see you again. How is your leg?”

“It’s making good progress, thanks for asking.”

“That’s good to hear. Please be careful and don’t overexert yourself. These things need time to heal.”

“Thank you, sir, I will try to keep that in mind.” Stubbs reached for something neatly stacked into the small shelf on his front desk and handed a few envelopes to Mycroft. "Your post, sir."

Mycroft accepted them but didn't spare a glance. Instead, he gestured towards Greg. “Allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade. Mr Lestrade has just received an entrance card to my flat and is free to come and go as he wishes.”

“Mr Stubbs,” said Greg politely and shook hands.

“May I ask you to please inform your colleagues accordingly? I believe the required visitors’ form has already been filled in.”

Stubbs tilted his head in affirmation. “Indeed it has been, Mr Holmes. Mr Lestrade, should you need assistance while you are a guest here, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Erm, thanks, Mr Stubbs. I’ll try not to be a bother.”

“No bother, sir, Mr Holmes’ guests are more than welcome.”

Greg nodded, shouldered his well-worn bag that looked very much out of place in the elegant entrance hall and followed Mycroft to the lifts. When the doors slid shut behind them, he lifted an eyebrow.

“And did that feel funny. I was about to get ready to perform a nice little bow. ‘Say good day to the gentleman, Greg.’ It’s a bit like talking to Hudson from ‘Upstairs Downstairs’. Do you think he approves of me?”

“It’s not his place to approve or disapprove of you, Gregory, but I did indeed have the impression he took a liking towards you.”

“Good. That’s good, right?”

“It most definitely is. Mr Stubbs is a powerful ally to have. Never ever underestimate the concierge.”

“That reminds me, I must introduce you to Mrs Turner. I bet she’s dying to meet you.”

“Dear me, why does that make me feel nervous?”

“And well you should be. You don’t want her to be your enemy, trust me. But I have a feeling she’ll like you. You’re posh and handsome. Just her type.” He winked mischievously.

They reached the floor where Mycroft’s flat was and stepped out of the lift.  Mycroft swept his card through the reader and the door opened with a quiet click.

Greg dropped his bag and stared.

“Fuck. Me.”

The apartment was huge, furnished and decorated with style and elegance.  From sitting room to drawing room, from dining table to chandelier, each article of decoration and furniture looked, or rather not looked, as if it had cost more than all of Greg’s furniture put together (with the exception of his couch and bed, he had paid good money for both).  The bathroom made him gape, and the master bedroom with a huge bed that seemed big enough for a family of four or five took his breath away.  The adjoining walk-in closet made him shake his head and chuckle to himself.  Still, after he had inspected each room and had recovered from the initial shock he appeared clearly underwhelmed, despite the grandeur and display of impeccable taste. 

“How can you live like this?”

“I’m sorry?”

“This place is like a tomb. I mean, it’s lovely and beautiful and the furniture is fantastic, but it’s so big and lifeless. It’s like a picture out of Homes and Gardens, but do you really feel at home here?”

Mycroft thought about that and found he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory reply, so he shrugged. “I’ve never really given it much thought. I needed to take up residence somewhere, so I bought a place that seemed appropriate.”

Greg gave him a horrified look. “But Myc, that sounds horrible! ‘A place that seemed appropriate.’ Aren’t you looking forward to coming home after a long day at work? Just dump your suit and tie and lie in a heap on the couch?”

The mere idea of Mycroft Holmes dumping his expensive suits to lie in a heap anywhere was absurd enough for both of them to laugh at the image it conjured up, but Greg couldn’t quite drop the subject.

“I mean, look at this sitting room. It’s so big and so utterly tidy. There’s not even a newspaper lying around and not a single dent on the couch. Do you even sit down or do you, I don’t know, hover? The only corner that looks remotely alive is the one over there,” he pointed at the grand piano. “There are music sheets and the stool is not at a precise angle but looks like it might have been moved, maybe even used.” He shuddered theatrically. “I’m sorry, Myc, but this place is too lonely to even keep a goldfish in.”

“Why would I want to keep a goldfish?” Mycroft asked with a blank stare.

“Dunno, to keep you company when you come home?”

“But I have a silver fox to keep me company now,” Mycroft murmured and pulled Greg closer, “which is infinitely better. Foxes are clever,” a soft kiss was placed on Greg’s chin, “cunning,” another kiss to his jaw, “and a fox’ fur is so much warmer and more pleasant to the touch than scales.”

“Come now,” Greg protested, “there’s chest hair alright, but it hardly qualifies as fur.” His protest died away and he closed his eyes as Mycroft gently nibbled that sensitive spot between jaw and earlobe. “OK then,” he managed when deft fingers started unbuttoning his shirt, “let’s see what I can do to make this place come alive a little more. Your bed doesn’t look all that uninviting, come to think of it.”

“And it will look even better with you in it,” Mycroft confirmed and started pushing Greg in the direction where said piece of furniture was located, and along the way the apartment’s impeccable tidiness got disturbed by the odd article of clothing ending up on the floor, disqualifying it from appearing in Homes and Gardens.

They took their time undressing each other, neither of them in a particular hurry, knowing they had the luxury of a whole weekend all to themselves and Greg applied special attention to a quadrant on Mycroft’s freckled shoulders that hadn’t been mapped satisfyingly enough.  It hadn’t taken long for him to find out that the back of Mycroft’s neck and shoulders were especially sensitive and he used his knowledge ruthlessly.  Mycroft was quickly reduced to breathless incoherencies, grabbing his pristine sheets of Egyptian cotton, wrinkling them, while he writhed beneath his lover’s body, and when he heard the rustle of plastic being ripped open and the unmistakable sounds of a condom being slipped on, he tried to turn around but Greg held him down.

“No, my love, I want you like this. I want your gorgeous arse against my hips,” he said in that husky voice that made Mycroft's brain switch off all rational thinking and go straight into _want_ mode.  The lid of a lube bottle clicked and a warm hand was placed on Mycroft's hips, urging him up.  He hurried to oblige, placed himself on his elbows and knees, backside up, spreading his legs in wanton invitation.  Greg swallowed audibly and with lube-slicked fingers started preparing him, the probing of his fingers alternating with gentle massages of testes and perineum.

“Take me now,” Mycroft pleaded, “please, Gregory, I want to feel you. Please.”

Greg positioned himself and Mycroft felt the tip of his cock press against his entrance.

“Oh God, yes,” he panted and pushed backwards, hungry and wanting.  With a hoarse moan Greg pushed inside, and Mycroft gasped in reply.  They held still for a moment, to give their bodies time to adjust, then Mycroft started bucking against Greg’s hips, the feeling of his lover’s length sliding in and out of him nearly undoing him.  Greg wrapped one arm around his waist and brought his torso up to lean against his chest.  With the hand that was still slick he reached for Mycroft’s cock and started pumping in rhythm with his strokes.  Mycroft made a sound deep in his throat and placed one of his hands over Greg’s, intensifying the pressure until Greg removed his hand with a breathless laugh and placed it on Mycroft’s hip to steady himself as he started fucking him in earnest.  Mycroft fell forward again, one arm bent and legs spread wide to keep him balanced, pumping into his own fist, Greg’s hips snapping against his buttocks, and he felt his balls tighten and draw up.

“Fuck, Myc, you’re beautiful,” Greg panted behind him, “you’re so beautiful –” Mycroft whimpered when Greg changed the angle by just a tiny fraction and each stroke now brushed his prostate, “so posh and brilliant… and _mine_.”  With a broken sound, Mycroft came apart, spilling himself all over his hand and onto the sheet.  His contractions shot straight through Greg who lasted no longer than a few more strokes before he, too, orgasmed with a strangled sound.  With shaking hands he removed the condom and collapsed next to his lover.

As soon as he regained control over his body, Mycroft pulled Greg close.  He pressed a kiss into the salt and pepper hair and murmured, “I knew the bed was going to look a lot better with you in it.”

 

Despite Greg’s best efforts, however, more and more of Mycroft’s personal belongings seemed to find their way to Greg’s flat and remained there, seemingly forgotten while their master packed, usually in a hurry to reach his first morning appointment in time.  Two tailored suits with matching shirts and ties made their way into Greg’s wardrobe as did a pair of shoes and some socks and underwear, and a second set of shaving utensils was added to the toiletries on the small bathroom shelf, along with aftershave and various bodycare products that clearly did not belong in Greg’s sparse selection.

Greg, on the other hand, got used to the listening devices in his flat, in addition to having his place checked and cleared for security whenever Mycroft came by.  It was only on very rare occasions that his arrival wasn’t preceded by the appearance of a quiet young man, or sporadically by a quiet young woman, and those usually occurred when Mycroft had to work ungodly hours and couldn’t bring himself to sleep alone, seeking out Greg’s company instead, even if it meant they didn’t actually spend much waking time together, one or both of them too tired to keep their eyes open barely after saying their hellos, the term ‘sleeping with each other’ meaning just that and nothing else more often than not.

On one of those nights Greg woke up to a tall and shivering frame trying to crawl into him.

“Mhm,” he mumbled sleepily, “’sup, Myc?”

“Nothing,” came a whispered reply, “I merely need the company of a real person.”

“Huh?”

“Shhh, go back to sleep, Gregory.”

“Mhm.” Still, Greg turned to face Mycroft and flung an arm around him.  Mycroft listened to his breath become more even and held him close as he drifted back into slumber, while his own body finally began to warm up again.  It was as if the day had drained him of all body heat, leaving him utterly cold.

******

“I can’t believe you would lower yourself to such depths,” Mycroft said icily.

Worthings gave him a sullen glare. “Not all of us are made of ice and stone.”

“I am not interested in the composition of either your body or your soul, should you believe in such a thing. What I would like to know, what I would really appreciate having explained to me is why a professional such as yourself would be willing to throw away everything he has worked for, everything he has achieved. Does the word loyalty mean nothing to you at all?”

“I’ve long stopped being loyal to anyone but myself,” Worthings scoffed. “Just look at yourself, a penguin in a three piece suit, pompous, stuffed, tied to rules and regulations. This is a free world, Holmes, doesn’t all of this,” he made a vague gesture, indicating the room, the building, the whole institution, Mycroft, “make you choke?”

“It is a free world because of people like us, people who have chosen to make every effort to keep it so.”

“Yeah, every effort, all for a greater cause.”

“What greater cause is there?”

“Listen to yourself, you self-righteous bastard! If you had seen what I have seen –”

Mycroft cut him short. “Oh, but I have seen plenty. Don’t flatter yourself of exclusivity.” He turned and signalled the guard. “Mr Worthings is done here. Take him away for further interrogation.”

The man nodded and took Worthings’ arm in a steel grip.  As Worthings was hauled out of the room, Mycroft closed his eyes, suddenly tired to the bone, desperately wishing he was somewhere – anywhere – else instead.  When Farrell finally was ushered inside, however, he saw no trace of tiredness or strain on the man waiting for him whose features gave away nothing.

“Mr Farrell, so glad you could make it. Please do sit down and share some of your valuable insights with me.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Holmes.”

“Humour me. Please.”

With a polite gesture towards the second chair, Mycroft indicated for Farrell to sit down.  The guard’s heavy hands on Farrell’s shoulders lent extra weight to the invitation and he listened with growing resignation as an offer was made that seemed difficult to resist.

 

“Into my office please, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft squared his shoulders and did as he was bid.  He was directed to the small conference corner where the video conferencing equipment had already been set up.

“We have some twenty minutes before our overseas friends dial in and start making a sally about back-stabbing Brits corrupting god-fearing professionals. So, if you please, update me on what has happened. How could all of this be carried out under our noses, without any of us – and that includes you – noticing?”

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft started outlining the situation at hand, from the original assumptions about Worthing’s and Farrell’s motives up to their capture and the interrogation results.  The Prime Minister nodded grimly.

“Just as I thought. Corruption works both ways, does it not?”

A dial tone was heard and the screen flickered to life.  Both men straightened in their chairs and met the group of six at the other end of the line with polite smiles that were not returned.

The conference went as anticipated, and it took all evening before a compromise could be agreed on.

“Expect to receive our first draft by tomorrow morning at 0900 GMT,” the head of the overseas party said curtly and without so much as even the most basic of farewells, the connection was cut off.

The Prime Minister slumped back in his chair.  “That went… splendidly. Dear God, the attitude.”

“Sabre rattling at its finest,” Mycroft agreed. “Will you excuse me now, sir, so I may start working on our first draft?”

“Certainly. By when do you think you will be done?”

“I will set a team to it immediately. You will have your copy by seven a.m. for perusal.”

“Very good. Have it printed and hand delivered to my private address. Some things are best read in printed form.”

“Seven o’clock, sir. You have my word.”

“Good evening, Mr Holmes.”

“Good evening, sir.”

******

“Take me home, Jeremy,” Mycroft said tiredly and closed his eyes.  He didn’t open them again before the car came to a halt.  He got out and started as he took in the sight of his apartment building, then realized that what he had said had not been in accordance with what he had meant.  He had not intended to spend the remaining few hours of the night all by himself in his own bed.  Instead, he wanted, desperately, to be with the man who had come to stand for warmth and laughter and the feeling of home, if only to lie beside him for a few precious hours and not feel quite so alone anymore.

“I am so very sorry, Jeremy, but I am afraid my directions have been misleading. May I ask you to please take me to Mr Lestrade’s address.”

His driver’s face remained impassive but Mycroft saw an understanding smile creep into his eyes nevertheless.

“Very well, Mr Holmes.”

And so Mycroft slipped into Greg’s flat in the middle of the night, exhausted to the bones, stripped quickly in the bathroom, got ready for sleep and crawled into bed quietly, not wanting to disturb his lover but grateful nevertheless when an arm was flung across him, welcoming him home.


	9. Chapter 9

Mrs Turner’s sitting room was crammed with memorabilia, lace doilies, cross stitching and furniture that was too large for the small room and yet, it felt cosy and not at all claustrophobic to sit on her old-fashioned settee.  The small coffee table was laden with a serving tray offering homemade biscuits and a delicate tea set, and Mrs Turner beamed at the elegant auburn-haired gentleman sitting in her armchair, helping himself to a second cup of tea and a biscuit.

“This is really quite delicious. May I ask who your supplier is?” He nibbled at the biscuit.

“Oh, but these aren’t from a shop, Mr Holmes. I have made them myself, from one of my mother’s recipes.”

“Really?” Mycroft made an appreciative sound. “Allow me to compliment you. It’s been a while since I’ve tasted anything that exquisite.” 

He shot a sly glance in the general direction of the couch where Greg pretended not to have heard.  Only the twitch of his lips gave him away, and Mycroft turned his attention back to Mrs Turner who enjoyed being in the company of two such handsome men.  Both Greg and Mycroft were on their best behaviour.  Greg, because he liked Mrs Turner, and Mycroft, because he would have regarded anything else as unforgivably rude, and because Mrs Turner conjured up fond memories of his grandmother.  He had taken extra care when choosing a suit for his first visit with Greg’s neighbour, and had decided on a charcoal suit with electric blue lining, matching pocket square and tie, a crisp white shirt and deceptively simple-looking cufflinks and shoes that were polished to shine.  It had taken quite some self-control on Greg’s part to not peel him out of his suit the very instant he showed up on his doorstep, and little did Greg know that the very same thought shot through Mycroft’s mind the moment he laid eyes on Greg who looked very dapper in navy blue chinos, a light blue shirt and camel corduroy jacket. 

“So, tell me again, Mr Holmes, what is it exactly that you do?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government. Not half as exciting as it may sound, I’m afraid. I am little more than your average pencil-pusher.”

“Oh.” Mrs Turner sounded a bit disappointed so Mycroft added, “But if it is of any interest to you, I occasionally have to step in for my superiors and attend official functions.”

He launched into a vivid description of a charity event he had to attend ‘in lieu of his superior’ where royalty was present, and he even ventured to deliver a spot-on imitation of the person in question, earning him giggles from Mrs Turner and an amused look from Greg who had not expected him to possess such acting talent. 

“Said incident, unfortunate as it seemed at the time being, ended up inspiring the attendees to open up their purses and wallets one more time and in the end, the foundation was presented with a handsome donation for their latest project,” Mycroft ended and took another sip from his cup.

Mrs Turner clapped her hands. “Oh, but this was precious! I don’t think I could persuade you to come to our book club once? My friends would love to hear that story.”

“Sadly, no, Mrs Turner, I don’t think it would be appropriate. I do not wish to appear as if I was making fun of our royal family, and a story that I know is correctly received within your walls might stir uneasy feelings in others.”

“Of course, you are so right. I wish I could tell Mrs Donahue about it. She’s been so downcast these past weeks, I really worry about her.”

“Mrs Donahue? Isn’t that your friend who comes to see you for a game of bridge and a cup of tea each Tuesday and loves all things lavender?” Greg asked.

“You’re very observant, Mr Lestrade,” Mrs Turner gave him an approving glance. “But what am I saying, you’re a policeman, after all. You know,” she turned to face Mycroft, “poor Mr Lestrade works so hard to make this city a safer place. I wonder whether I may ask you to look after him so he doesn’t work himself into total exhaustion.”

“You may, Mrs Turner, and I give you my word that I will do my very best to prevent this from happening. I take a personal interest in his well-being, you see.”

“You are such a dear, Mr Holmes.” She sighed. “Mr Lestrade, would you mind terribly if I told you something in the strictest confidence? And Mr Holmes, please don’t consider me a nosy old chatterbox going behind her friends’ backs, but Mrs Donahue is an old and dear friend of mine, and I am so very concerned. Normally I wouldn’t even think about addressing such a thing without her present, or without having asked for her permission before, and far be it from burdening Mr Lestrade further, but I don’t know where else to turn to.”

“Please, Mrs Turner, you are not burdening me, and you are not a chatterbox. I’ve known you long enough to know better.” Greg gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Would you like me to leave the room if the subject is of such a delicate matter?” Mycroft offered, getting ready to rise out of the armchair.

“Oh no, Mr Holmes, I think it would be alright if you stayed, you being with the Government and acquainted with Royalty. I am sure you can keep a secret.”

“How very kind of you to say, thank you. In that case I will stay, unless you ask me to leave at some later point.”  He sat back down, and Greg said encouragingly, “What is the matter with Mrs Donahue that worries you so?”

“Well, you see, she hasn’t come to our book club meetings in over four weeks, although we had the honour of receiving Ms Sophie Fannings three weeks ago.”

“Sophie Fannings?”

“She writes the most beautiful poetry and does her own illustrations. She is a very talented young lady, lovely, too, and she graciously accepted our invitation to read from her latest book. Mrs Donahue was beside herself with joy when she heard about it, and she even went and bought a new dress for the occasion. So when she didn’t turn up that evening, I was more than surprised, as you can imagine.I tried to ring her the next day because I was worried, and she hasn’t come to see me for our weekly meetings, either, but she answered her phone only after I had tried several times, and she was so strange and didn’t sound at all like herself, so I took the liberty and paid her a visit on that Tuesday to suggest we take up having our game of bridge at her house.” She had started to stir her tea rather nervously with shaking hands and Mycroft took the cup gently away from her.  She didn’t seem to mind and pressed her hands together. “When she opened her door, I was amazed, no, I was shocked about the picture she presented. You’ve seen her, Mr Lestrade, she is always so nicely dressed, with her hair done up properly, and even when she was taken ill last winter, she was dressed in the most lovely of dressing gowns when I came to see her, but when she opened the door she looked like an old woman. I feared she wouldn’t even let me inside but she did, and when we sat down in her kitchen and she started preparing tea for us, I noticed bruises on her wrists.  She has such delicate skin, you know, she bruises like a peach and even the smallest mark stays for weeks.” She reached for her cup again and brought it to her lips, still a bit shaky but steady enough not to spill her tea. “I didn’t want to say anything at first because it is not for me to comment, but then I noticed she had bruises on the side of her neck as well, and an ugly purple swelling, too, so I ventured to ask whether she had had an accident, and she started to shake and it took quite a while for her to calm down. She asked me to leave, which I did, but oh Mr Lestrade, I’m afraid something terrible has happened to her.”

Mrs Turner’s voice had begun to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.  Greg’s face had become very concerned as her story progressed, and by the time she was finished, he sat on the edge of the couch, putting Mrs Turner’s hands in his own. 

“You did the right thing,” he said in a firm voice. “You were right to tell me about this, and you don’t have to worry about being a chatterbox. You are her friend, and as her friend you have every right to worry if something seems to not quite right.” He took a deep breath. “I wonder whether I might be allowed to speak with her? From what you have told us, something must have happened indeed. You’re a sharp observer, Mrs Turner, and I trust your judgment.”

“Do you really think so? You don’t think I’m exaggerating?”

“Quite the contrary. In fact, I wonder whether we might go and see her right now before even more time is wasted.”

“Would you do that, Mr Lestrade? I would be so grateful.”  She grabbed his arm.  “But I would hate to ruin your weekend. I am sure you have other plans, and Mr Holmes –”

“I assure you, Mr Holmes does not mind at all,” Mycroft cut in. “Although I’m not a policeman and know next to nothing about policework, I agree with Mr Lestrade that this matter seems urgent enough to justify interrupting our weekend.”

“Thank you very much, dear, you have such a good heart.” She turned towards Greg. “Should we just take a cab and pay her an unexpected visit?”

“No, I don’t think that would be wise.” Greg thought for a moment and Mycroft offered, “Why don’t you ring her up and ask for her advice on a new biscuit recipe you have tried. Tell her you are expecting visitors tomorrow and you aren’t sure if the recipe you have picked is suitable for two gentlemen.” He winked at her. “That way, you won’t have to stretch your imagination too far and the subject is not so wildly out of hand.”

“Mr Holmes, you are quite the sly one.” She rose immediately. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

She went into the hallway where her telephone sat on a sideboard and dialled Mrs Donahue’s number.  When her voice was heard, cheerfully chatting about the biscuits she had just made for the next day, Greg turned to Mycroft with a frown.

“I don’t like this at all. Maybe I’m overreacting and Mrs Donahue’s merely displaying first signs of senility or something, but right now it sounds very much like the Nightcrawler to me.”

“Nightcrawler?”

Greg pursed his lips. “Also known as Operation South Downs but the press prefer Nightcrawler because it sounds creepier. And creepy it is.” He furrowed his brow. “When I joined the department some ten years ago we started hearing about incidents of elderly women being assaulted in their homes. It seemed random at first and not connected, but gradually something of a pattern seemed to develop. The victims’ homes were broken into either from the side or the rear, and often tools from their very own garden sheds were used. Then there was nothing for one or two years, and then it started again, five or six assaults that we know of, then again, nothing. It’s very difficult to get the victims to testify because they’re from a generation that doesn’t talk about these things, and I don’t want to know how many victims there are who remain silent out of embarrassment.” He clenched his fists. “It makes me so bloody angry.”

“I take it there is no evidence that can be used?”

“Oh yes there is, but it’s not helpful.”

“Why is that?”

“We don’t have any records of him. He wears gloves but doesn’t use condoms. Go figure. Last year there was one 80-year old lady so badly injured the doctors weren’t able to save her, and sadly, she’s the one we were able to gain DNA samples from. Only because her nurse happened to arrive way too early the next morning and found her still conscious, and was quick-witted enough to record something like a statement with her mobile.”

“Profile?”

“Not enough. He’s Caucasian and seems to speak with a German accent.”

“Too vague to base a profile on.” Mycroft nodded. “Dear God.”

Greg punched one of the carefully arranged cushions. “Man, how I wish Sherlock were here. I bet he would be able to spot something we missed. ‘You’re looking for a Bavarian in his thirties with brown eyes and a preference for Indian food and green socks’, you know, that kind of crazy shit,” another punch to the unlucky cushion, and so the flicker that passed over Mycroft’s face went unnoticed.

Mrs Turner came back into the sitting room.

“Mr Lestrade, you are not going to believe it but she has agreed to meet me, and even asked me to bring the biscuits. I told her I could be there shortly, and she promised to get the kettle going.”

“That is excellent. We better not lose any time then. Myc –” he started but was cut off immediately.

“Nonsense, Gregory, you must go immediately. If you don’t mind, I’ll occupy your sitting room until you come back. As it happens, I have brought some work with me and I can use the afternoon to read through some of the files.”

“Thanks,” Greg lifted his hand as if to touch Mycroft’s cheek but changed his mind, not wanting to embarrass either Mycroft or Mrs Turner.  When Mrs Turner turned tactfully away to carry the serving tray outside, Mycroft leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Greg’s lips.

“I hope you’ll be able to come home to catch some sleep, and not rush off to the Met right away.” He managed a wry grin. “Listen to me, so selfish.”

“I’m selfish, too, and I share your hopes. I think the evening is safe but I’m pretty sure the Sunday’s fucked. Depending on what I hear I might have to alert Hillerton.”

“Ah, DCI Anthony Hillerton.”

“What of him?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft said, a little too quickly, and Greg narrowed his eyes.

“Mycroft Holmes, I don’t like how you speak his name. He’s a good bloke, you hear me?”

“I recall you saying something else entirely a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah, so I was pissed at him. He behaved like an idiot during the Allendale kidnapping case and almost did something totally stupid. Got a little emotional, probably because his youngest is of Matthew’s age. He’s calmed down since then and is back to normal, so don’t squint like that, Myc.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. Don’t do it, just don’t. It makes me nervous.”

He stepped into the small hallway.

“Mrs Turner?”

She glanced around the corner of her kitchen door. “Yes, dear?”

“Let me get my ID and wallet from my flat and phone for a cab to pick us up, alright? When do you think you’ll be ready?”

“Oh, I can be ready in ten minutes. All I need is my handbag, different shoes and a light overcoat. I have already put some biscuits into a Tupperware.”

“Very good. I will knock for you in ten minutes, yes?”

“Thank you. That is so very kind of you, Mr Lestrade, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all.”

“Mrs Donahue can count herself lucky to have you as a friend,” Mycroft added and took the hand that was offered gently into his own. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Turner, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, and I hope we can pick up some other time to make up for the interruption, if only to give me a chance to have another of your excellent biscuits.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mr Holmes. And I am truly sorry for ruining your afternoon.”

“Not ruined at all.” 

Once inside his flat, Greg took his ID and wallet, then phoned for a cab to pick Mrs Turner and himself up before making another call.

“Andy? Lestrade here. Listen, you wouldn’t happen to be at the office right now? - Oh, you are? How come? - Oh I see. Yeah, got it. Hey, could you do me a favour? Small one. - Shut up. So not happening. Listen, would you dig the Nightcrawler files out and put them on my desk? – Yeah, something’s come up and I’ve got a hunch. – What? No, can’t talk about it right now. – Fuck you too. Get the files ready, please? I’ll ring you tonight. Cheers, mate.”

He hung up. “Well, Myc, there goes our quiet afternoon. I hope I’m wrong but I’ve got this notion I’m not.”

Mycroft had begun to turn the travelling chest that served as Greg’s coffee table into a makeshift desk with his laptop booting up and his tablet computer running.  He looked up and gave him a crooked smile.

“Would you believe me if I told you I wouldn’t want it any other way? Not the interruptions and the late nights, but this? Somebody who understands and respects the way my life is going with the job I have because he doesn’t have regular working hours either? It makes our time together so much more precious, doesn’t it?”

Greg nudged the trunk aside with his knee and straddled Mycroft’s lap, wrapped his arms firmly around him and brought their foreheads together.

“This,” he whispered, “only this. You don’t know how much I –”, he broke off, swallowing the words his mind supplied, not sure he was quite ready to speak them yet, but Mycroft whispered back, “I know,” and kissed him.  They parted before the kiss turned into something more passionate and Greg got to his feet again.

“Hold that thought. I will be back.” He touched Mycroft’s cheek and turned to go.

******

The front door of the modest semi-detached house was cracked open and the worried face of an elderly woman peeked out.  A weak smile formed on her lips when she recognized Mrs Turner.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Donahue,” said Mrs Turner cheerfully. “So kind to see me at such short notice. I hope you don’t mind but my dear neighbour kindly agreed to accompany me.”

At the sight of Greg Mrs Donahue started as if to close her door again but Mrs Turner resolutely put her hand against it.

“Please, there is no need to be afraid. He’s a policeman, a police officer even, and his name is Gregory Lestrade. You’ve seen him before. He lives in the opposite flat.”

Mrs Donahue hesitated, her eyes darting from Mrs Turner to Greg and back to Mrs Turner.  Then she seemed to have reached a decision and opened her door.

“Please, do come in. Both of you,” she offered in an unsteady voice, stepping back to let them in.

Greg followed them into Mrs Donahue’s kitchen where a tea pot and two delicate china cups sat waiting.  He politely waited to be invited to sit down and watched Mrs Donahue as she was preparing a third cup of tea.  There was no sign of the personal negligence Mrs Turner had mentioned, she was dressed with care, wearing a grey skirt with a lavender twin set, simple black shoes with a small heel, her light brown hair was neatly done up and her pearl earrings matched the pendant on her chain.  He noticed her tense features, however, the iron self-control with which she held herself, and the tiniest of tremor in her hands when she turned to face him.

“Do you take milk and sugar in your tea, Mr Lestrade?”

Her voice was strangely flat, and she averted her eyes.

“Just milk, thank you, Mrs Donahue.”

He took his cup, still standing.  With a weak gesture their hostess gestured towards the kitchen table.

“Please, sit down.”

“Thank you.”

He sat down next to Mrs Turner who started chatting about recipes and her gentlemen visitors and all but forced Mrs Donahue to look at the biscuits she had brought, asking for her opinion, and only when Mrs Donahue’s voice became a little livelier and some colour crept back into her face, she put her cup down and asked conversationally, “And now, my dear, don’t you think it’s about time you told me just why you’ve been hiding away for so long? Your book club misses you, and my Tuesday afternoons just aren’t enjoyable anymore.”

Greg looked at her, stunned at the blunt approach.  The biscuit in Mrs Donahues hand was broken in two and the halves fell down on the table, and as her hands came down, suddenly without power in them, her tea cup tumbled over. 

“Oh no, look at the mess I’ve made,” she cried with dismay, and when Greg reached across the table to offer his napkin, she flinched away from him. “Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was shrill and Greg hastily pulled his arm back.  Mrs Turner shifted in her seat to place a comforting arm around the shaking shoulders.

“Come now, dear, Mr Lestrade doesn’t mean to do you any harm. He’s a police officer, remember? He can help you if you but let him.” With her lace handkerchief she dabbed her friend’s cheeks. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to you? We have shared so much already, why don’t you let us help us carry this burden with you?”

“I can’t talk about it, I’m so ashamed. It’s not a subject to talk about when a gentleman is present.”

Greg cleared his throat. “A policeman is a little like a doctor, Mrs Donahue. We see too much to be considered proper gentlemen,” he said gently. “Please listen to Mrs Turner. I’m here to help and I am certain I can, but I need your help as well. You don’t have to share everything with me, I can ask for a female officer to take a proper statement, if you prefer. All I need is a few details so I can decide what to do next.”

Light hazelnut eyes bore into his dark brown ones.  He returned her scrutinizing gaze calmly and finally, she nodded slowly.

“You have kind eyes, Mr Lestrade, and I know Mrs Turner thinks highly of you. Yes, I will tell you what happened but not all of it. Not before my friend, and not before a man. I will speak with a female officer if you send one over to see me.”

“Absolutely. I will ask Sergeant Sally Donovan to come by on Monday morning, if that agrees with you. I have worked with Sergeant Donovan for years, she’s a very good police officer and a good person. She will not force you to say anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, but she will know better than I what information is necessary and what may remain unspoken.”

Mrs Donahue turned her eyes towards Mrs Turner.

“Remember when we spoke the evening before Ms Fannings’ reading? When I told you I thought some of my gardening tools were missing from my little shed?”

“Yes I do, you were very upset because you had planned to finally remove the lilies because you couldn’t bear to smell them any longer. You thought you neighbour’s sons had climbed over the fence and nicked them.”

“That night, when I was sitting by the window in my armchair to read a few pages of Ms Fannings’ latest book, the lights suddenly went dark…”

Her guests listened to a story so awful it made Mrs Turner blanch and reach for her rescue remedy.  The back door had been forced open and a man wearing a dark skiing mask had come into her sitting room, threatening her with a knife and telling her to do exactly as he said if she wanted to live.  He had pushed her into her bedroom and, “oh, it is unspeakable, I feel so guilty,” Mrs Donahue sobbed into the handkerchief.  Greg didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say, and let Mrs Turner do the talking and the comforting.

When the sobs quieted down, he asked in a very soft voice, “Your home was broken into, and you were badly abused. Why didn’t you dial 999?”

“I didn’t want to disturb. The police already are so busy.”

“Breaking and entering is nothing to be taken lightly, and physical assault will always be taken seriously.”

“Would they have believed me? Would I not have appeared to be a rambling old woman?”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Turner cut in sharply. “You are not a rambling old woman. A look at your terrible bruises would have been enough. I shudder to think what they must have looked like when they were fresh.”

Greg sat for a few more moments, doing his best to convince Mrs Donahue she had done the right thing telling him her story, then excused himself and left the friends to themselves after handing over his card with Sally Donovan’s name and mobile number scribbled on, in case her name was forgotten by the time she showed up.

He headed straight for his office and collected the files Andy had put on his desk, signed them out properly and went back to his flat where Mycroft was on the phone, speaking rapidly and rather angrily in Spanish.  Greg went into his kitchen and took a bottle of lager out of his fridge.  He sat down heavily on one of the stools at his kitchen island and tried to get his thoughts in order.  There was no denying that everything he had heard carried the signature of the man who had been given the nickname Nightcrawler and who had made it his specialty to assault elderly women living by themselves.  The awful mixture of utmost brutality and twisted tenderness with which he treated his victims made Greg sick to the bone.  _He kissed my cheek when he left and promised never to do it again_ , Mrs Donahue had said.  He pulled out his mobile and dialled Hillerton’s number.  The DCI replied almost immediately.

“Lestrade here. Sir, I am truly sorry to disturb your Saturday evening but I believe there has been another Nightcrawler incident.”

He summarized what had happened and suggested meeting the next day.  Hillerton was silent for a moment, then grudgingly agreed to an impromptu briefing, having recognized the significance.

Greg looked up to see Mycroft lean against the doorframe.

“Are you allowed to speak about what has happened?”

He shook his head.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details but I will have to go through the files, and I imagine you’ve updated yourself sufficiently in the meantime, so I guess I can’t stop you from commenting. If you’re interested enough, that is,” he added.

“Of course I am interested in your work and yes, I have indeed checked a few facts while you were gone. I understand you must not share your latest findings as they have not been properly recorded but maybe I can be of some assistance with what has been recorded so far.”

It turned out Mycroft had quite a few comments to make and Greg quickly found out that where he had always admired Sherlock’s razor-sharp intellect and outstanding deductive abilities, the older Holmes was even better, adding an uncanny knack to read between the lines and experience with longwinded records into the equation, and unlike his younger brother who had tended to fling short-clipped findings at the police, Mycroft patiently walked Lestrade through his deductions, making it all seem very easy and comprehensible, and for once, Greg did not feel like a fool while listening to a Holmes.

He sat back, legs stretched out before him, his back against one of his shelves, and nibbled at his pen.

“Mrs Donahue said her bank card was stolen. That’s a good place to start. Maybe he was foolish enough to use it this time, and maybe there’ll be CCTV footage.”

“I believe I could be of help here,” Mycroft suggested, “and you haven’t heard me say that.”

“You didn’t say anything. Neither did I about the bankcard. I don’t have much hope, though, he has never used stolen bankcards before.”

They looked at each other.

“Take me to bed,” Greg said. “Make me forget all of this for a while so I have something good to remember when I have to plunge into yet another abyss.”

And Mycroft did.

******

The bankcards proved to be the turning point.  Mrs Donahue’s account had indeed been accessed shortly after the assault on her, but the CCTV footage of the person in question turned out useless because he was wearing a baseball cap with its peak pulled down enough to obscure his face.  However, Andy, ever the patient one when it came to sifting through CCTV records, spotted something that looked like a network station’s bus in the reflection of a shop window.  A few frantic phone calls later it was confirmed that it had indeed been a broadcasting vehicle, and the network station provided that day’s footage, eager to help and eager for an exclusive.

It took days to check the vehicle records until all cars that had been in the proximity of the cash machine were identified and the number suspicious vehicles could be narrowed down, and several more weeks of observation when finally, one day, a car that had been repeatedly seen in a street where a pensioner’s home was located, was spotted in a car park nearby.  As its owner unlocked the driver’s door, he was greeted by a gravelly male voice.

“Good evening, Herr Vonstetten. Didn’t find what you were looking for?”

The man’s head snapped up and to his left where the voice had come from.  He tried to bolt but found himself in a steely grip, face on the bonnet.  From the corner of his eye he saw a pair of cold brown eyes fixed on him, and the gravelly voice said, “Jens Vonstetten, I am arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering as well as rape and sexual assaults. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Vonstetten remained stubbornly silent, so Greg repeated gruffly, “Do you understand?” and tightened his grip by a fraction.

“I understand,” Vonstetten groaned.

“Wunderbar, vielen Dank.” Greg hauled him up and put him into the care of two uniformed policemen standing by. “Time to go home, boys and girls. I’m itching to hand him over to DCI Hillerton. Bet he can’t wait to put his German vocabulary to good use.”

******

A few weeks later, Greg stood next to Andy in the Chief Superintendent’s office and shifted uneasily from one foot to another while Andy received his new badge with the proud smile of a man who had put in hard work and personal effort to achieve his long-awaited promotion to become a Detective Inspector in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command.

“Congratulations, Detective Inspector Rogers. You have excelled at your leadership course, and your most recent commitment in on-going investigations has exceeded expectations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Rogers.”

They shook hands, and the Chief dismissed Andy, focussing his attention on Greg as soon as the office door was closed again.

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade.”

“Sir.”

“Your case has been brought to the Assistant Commissioner’s attention. You have been placed under close observation by Internal Affairs for well over a year, ever since the Holmes case, and your loyalty and integrity have been found to be without fault. In addition, your work on both the Allendale and the Nightcrawler case was outstanding.” He made a meaningful pause, then continued with a little smile. “It has therefore been decided to reverse the decision that was taken in the course of the unfortunate incident connected to the involvement of a civilian consultant, and effective immediately your rank of Detective Inspector has been reinstated.”

“Thank you –” Greg started but the Chief held up a hand.

“I wasn’t done yet, Lestrade. DCI Hillerton has put in to be transferred to Human Exploitation and Organised Crime Command. I expect the transfer to take place within the next two months. Homicide will therefore be short of a Chief Inspector and it was suggested to offer the position to you.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

“It was suggested to promote you to the rank of Detective Chief Inspector,” the Chief repeated patiently while Greg tried to wrap his brain around the unexpected development.

“I am honoured, sir.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Lestrade?”

His mind refocused. “May I ask where this comes from?”

“You may not. Let’s just say you seem to have friends in high places who have taken a special interest in you and feel they need to do right by you.”

“That does have a funny ring to it, if I may say so.”

“Only if you don’t have the background facts. There is no favouritism attached to this post, you may take my word for it. This is for your ears only and strictly off the record.”

“Of course.”

“I think it was about time. It was foul business what was done to you and I’m glad it has come to an end.”

“Thank you, sir. In that case, I am glad to accept.”

They, too, shook hands, and Greg stepped into the corridor where Andy stood waiting for him.

“And?”

“DCI,” Greg grinned.

“Fuck me,” Andy said with feeling.

“You wish. I only do redheads, sorry mate.”

“When is it going to become official?”

“Dunno. It’s up to Hillerton, or maybe even the Super. And now excuse me, I must make a phone call.”

“Fixing a shag date, eh?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

They embraced heartily.

“Congrats, man, you’ll make a fine DI.”

“DCI Lestrade.” Andy gave a mock salute, and Greg strode towards an empty office to text Mycroft.

_Need to speak. Available? --GL_

His phone rang immediately.

“Yes?”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’ve just been promoted to DCI. Your doing?”

“Most definitely not, Gregory. I’ve been accused of meddling but I know when it’s wiser not to overstep certain borders. Remember what I said about being connected to the rescue of young Matthew Allendale?”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

“On your brother’s grave.”

There was a pause at the other end.

“On my brother’s name, I swear I didn’t have anything to do with your promotion.”

“I said on your brother’s grave.”

“I’d rather swear on my brother’s name, thank you,” Mycroft said, a little stiffly.

“OK, fine. Sherlock’s name is good enough.”

“I appreciate that. Congratulations, Gregory. You have deserved it.”

“Thanks, Myc. Feels a bit unreal still. It’ll take some time, I think.”

“I am confident you will grow into your new title very quickly. Listen, I am dreadfully sorry but I must dash. Downing Street is calling. Are you free tonight?”

“I was going to join the lads at the Silver Fox. Wanna come?”

“Let’s see what I can do. Smart casual?”

“Anything but a three piece.”

“Understood.”

They hung up and Greg went back to his desk where DCI Hillerton stood waiting for him.

“Lestrade, there you are. I was going to make an announcement, if the timing meets with your approval?” The latter was delivered with a mocking undertone.

Greg shot him a surprised look. “So soon?”

“It was all nodded off well and proper, why wait? Nothing like a bunch of gossiping fishwives to piss me off.”  He clapped his hands. “Everybody! Meeting room three in five!”

 

When the team was crammed into the meeting room, Hillerton didn’t waste any time.

“It is my pleasure to announce that Rogers over there has been promoted DI, effective immediately, and Lestrade over here has not only been reinstated DI, effective immediately, but will also take over from me as DCI over the course of the next two months. My prayers have been answered and I have been transferred away from you sorry bunch.” He grinned. “So, those of you who have pissed me off may sleep peacefully again, and those of you who have pissed Lestrade off better check for job openings. The official brouhaha will follow in due course but I was given permission to announce things a bit earlier. Congratulations Lestrade and Rogers, and off to work now.”

“Silver Fox at eight pm tonight,” Greg shouted over the beginning babble of voices. “First round’s on me, everybody.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not good at writing crime so I borrowed from real life, and the Nightcrawler case is based on the Nightstalker case that occurred between 1992 and 2009 across South London, Kent and Surrey. Reading about it really pissed me off so I decided to use it here. Here's a link that I found helpful: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delroy_Easton_Grant


	10. Chapter 10

The Silver Fox was crowded, as usual, and yet Mycroft spotted Greg at once.  He would be able to single out that salt-and-pepper head anywhere, and the look in Greg’s dark eyes as he greeted him made his heart skip a beat.  Kissing was out of the question, sadly, and Mycroft found it increasingly difficult to stick to their iron rule.  Not that he had ever been fond of public displays of affection, but the urge to lean forward and touch his lips to Greg’s smile was overwhelming.  A hearty slap on his back yanked him out of his revelry and he looked over his shoulder to the right where Kevin was standing.

“Mike! Good to see you again, mate, how are you? You haven’t been here in ages.” Kevin’s voice held no reproach, however.

“It is good to see you, too, Kevin,” Mycroft said politely. “I’m very sorry for not having been around more often but work has been –” He shrugged.

“Insane?” Kevin offered helpfully and Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, I believe one could say that.” He signalled the waitress and ordered a gin and tonic, then turned towards Greg. “Gregory, I believe congratulations are in order?”

“Yeah, thanks for coming tonight, Myc.” Mycroft was pulled into a bear hug, unsuspicious and harmless enough, but feeling Greg’s bodyheat against his chest made his rididulous heart beat just a little faster.  

“I wouldn’t have missed it. I was lucky today’s last meeting got cancelled, otherwise I would have come up with a very wordy excuse.”

“Glad to hear it,” Greg cheerfully said and added, “First drink’s on me. Oh, and Andy’s made DI today, so there’s another reason to celebrate.”

“Really?” Mycroft turned towards Andy. “Congratulations, Andy.”

They fell into an easy chat and Mycroft scanned the crowd for familiar faces.  Prior to his arrival, he had sent one of his security staff to check for anybody who might recognize him from previous occasions, such as DCI Hillerton and Sergeant Donovan, because he did not wish to be connected to his public persona just yet.  Not while certain things needed... working on.  Much to his relief, Hillerton had already left by the time he was on his way, and Sally Donovan had not been able to make it at all.  So Mycroft relaxed, accepted his gin and tonic and struck up a discussion on the latest football listings – shrouding his personal indifference by applying masterful manipulative techniques to keep the ball rolling, in a manner of speaking.

Greg looked at him from where he was standing and was experiencing the oddest of sensations. ‘Mine!’ he wanted to shout. ‘Look at him! He is brilliant and wonderful and funny, but I’m the one who gets to go home with him because he’s _mine_!’  Instead, he quietly enjoyed the sight of slim hips and very long legs accentuated by a pair of well-fitted chinos and the merest hint at dark auburn chest hair peaking out of the green Henley shirt.  Blue-and-grey eyes sparkled with wicked glee as referees’ decisions were discussed and considered unworthy and if only Arsenal had... no they wouldn’t have, for ManU did... I beg to differ but may I remind you of Tottenham’s... and Greg felt the sudden urge to grab Mycroft by the lapels of his no doubt ridiculously expensive brown leather jacket and snog his equally expensive socks off.

“Careful, Greg, stop staring at him like he’s a truffle,” Andy said into Greg’s ear, “unless you want the whole bloody station to talk about Lestrade gone gay all of a sudden.”

“Yeah and?” Greg retorted, stung. “I won’t hide in the closet forever.”

“Your call. I don’t think an awful lot of folks know that you swing both ways. You might want to break it to them gently. Just saying.”

“Mhm.” Greg chewed his lower lip. “Guess that’s true. Damn. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s hot.”

He caught Mycroft watching him with a strangely intent look and a very smug smile curled the straight lips right after Greg’s last statement.  Greg suddenly remembered Mycroft telling him how he and Sherlock used to read lips and apply their findings whenever they were needed the least, and so he glared at him and mouthed, ‘You’re not getting any tonight, you sneaky bastard’.  Mycroft looked taken aback for a moment – Greg wondered whether he might actually have forgotten telling Greg about the lip-reading –, but then one aristocratic eyebrow arched in a most haughty manner and the laziest of smiles was bestowed on Greg as if daring him to follow through on his threat which both knew wouldn’t happen.

“Say, Mike,” Thomas nudged him. “Any chance of hearing you play the piano tonight?”

“Would you like me to play?” Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised and Paul was quick to back Thomas up. “You bet we would. You kicked arse the first time you were here. People kept talking about the posh piano man for weeks.”

“The posh piano man?” Mycroft chuckled. “Dear me. I won’t sing, piano man or no, make no mistake about that.”

“That’s OK, man.” Paul grinned. “Just boogie away and there’ll be no complaints.”

Mycroft turned towards Greg. “Gregory, what do you say? It’s your evening after all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind hearing you play.” Greg nodded resolutely. “I liked it.”

“So be it.” Mycroft emptied his gin and tonic and went in search for the manager.

“Look at him,” Paul said with a strange undertone. “Swans right through the crowd as if he owns the place.” He took a gulp. “If I ever wanted to play gay, it would be with him.”

“What?” Kevin and Greg said at the same time and Paul shrugged. “Dunno why I said that. But there’s something about him.”

“And aren’t you delusional.” Kevin snorted. “Even if he was gay, which I totally believe he’s not, what makes you think he’d go after a beat-up copper like you? I’m sure there are many pretty boys out there who’d happily line up to get a piece of that posh arse.”

“Oi!” Greg cut in. “May I remind you that he’s my friend, and I won’t have you talk about him that way.”

“Sorry, man.” Kevin held up his hands but gave Paul a speculative look. “Just wondering when Paul’s gone all gay-friendly.”

“Stop making it sound like it’s a disease,” Paul snapped. “But if you’re interested, my eldest has decided he likes boys better than girls. What was I supposed to do? Kick him out of the house, telling him he brings shame to the family name?” He emptied his pint. “So I was a little angry with him for a while but then I thought, fuck it, he’s still my boy and if that’s what makes him happy, then it's fine by me.” He set his glass down with a thunk and gave Kevin a challenging glare. “I’ve even met his current boyfriend and he’s an alright bloke. Nothing sissy about him. He’s all into rugby and plays a mean fly-half on his team. So. No gay jokes while I’m around.”

“Lads, please.” Andy intervened. “Such heavy discussion on our fun night out. About time Mike hits the piano keys so we can stop all this and concentrate on the fun part, yeah?” He raised his glass. “To fun!”

“To fun!” Greg and Paul clinked their glasses together, and the rest of the group joined them. When Mycroft returned, they were back to friendly bantering.

“Well?” Thomas asked hopefully.

“Break’s in fifteen minutes, but I am to accompany a young singer first who’s afraid to step on stage all by herself and doesn’t want to sing karaoke-style.” He didn’t seem very happy about the prospect. “I have never accompanied a singer before.”

“Have you ever played with somebody else, like an orchestra or a band?”

“A band? Dear god no.” Mycroft gave him a disgusted look. “I have only ever played with one other person before, but that was a long time ago.”

“Oh yeah? With who?”

“With whom,” Mycroft corrected absent-mindedly. “With my brother.”

“Does he play the piano, too?”

“No, the violin.”

“Oh wow,” Thomas said, impressed. “Do you think he could be persuaded to come here and play with you?”

“Sadly, that won’t be possible.” Mycroft reached for his glass, found he had already emptied it and ordered another drink. “Listen, I don’t wish to be rude, but can we please not talk about my brother?”

“Sorry, man, family issues?”

“Something of the kind, yes.”

A young woman approached them and smiled shyly at Mycroft. “Excuse me, are you Mike?”

“Indeed I am.” He looked down into a lovely heart-shaped face surrounded by a thick mane of golden ringlets.  Huge blue eyes peered into his with obvious nervousness, and the fact that the eyes of at least six policemen suddenly were focussed on her seemed to make her even uneasier.

“I am Fiona,” she said in a very small voice, barely audible over the background noise. “Tony said you’re going to play the piano for me?”

“And I will.” Mycroft smiled. “Should we proceed to the stage so you can tell me what you plan to sing? Did you bring music sheets?”

“Yes, oh yes, I have them right here.” She reached into her purse and produced a neat slim folder. Mycroft accepted it and leafed through it.

“This is a good selection,” he said appreciatively. “Let’s get you away from these leering policemen,” he bestowed a stern look on the men in question, “and talk music.”  He offered her his arm in an exaggerated display of proper manners and steered her towards the stage.

When they were out of earshot, Kevin said with a heartfelt sigh, “Fuck me hard. I need to learn how to play the piano. If he keeps that up then I know who’s going home with him tonight.”

“Shut up,” Greg snapped angrily. “Seriously, man, you’re beginning to piss me off. Why are you such a dick when he's around?”

Kevin shrugged. “It’s this super posh thing. Indeed this and exceedingly that. There’s something odd about him. Besides, I think I’ve seen him before. Can’t place him right now but I’ll remember sooner or later.”

“Oh, please _do_ share your findings. I am _exceedingly_ anxious to hear all about it,” Andy said in a mocking voice. “You hate him because he’s tall and posh and well-mannered and he gets to be on stage with a pretty lady. Boo-hoo.” He reached for the full tray the waitress had brought to their table and pushed a pint in Kevin’s direction. “Drink this and be quiet. Nag on and I’ll have you work on domestics for the rest of the month, are we clear?”

Kevin accepted the beer with a reluctant grin. “Yessir, DI Rogers, sir.”

A throat being cleared made them turn their attention towards the stage.

“Good evening, boys and girls,” the pub’s manager said cheerfully, and the crowd replied in unison, “Good evening, Tony!”  Tony grinned. “It is my pleasure to announce the lovely Fiona Munroe who will sing three songs for you tonight with Mike Croft on the piano. Maybe Mike will play some boogie-woogie for you if you treat him nicely.”

_Mike Croft_.  Greg snorted, choked on his beer and fell into a hysterical coughing fit.  Thomas slapped his back. “Heimlich manoeuvre?” he suggested.  Greg shook his head, still coughing. “Don’t touch me, man,” he managed. “Go away.”

“Fiona and Mike, everybody!” Tony left the stage and Fiona stepped up to the microphone, adjusted its height and gave the crowd a shy little smile. 

“Good evening,” her voice was soft and had a sweet lilt to it. “I’m going to sing three of my favourite songs for you tonight, and I hope you like them as much as I do.”  She turned to Mycroft and nodded.  He started playing the first notes, and the cacophony of voices gradually died down.  The first song, something about an angel passing through a room, was rewarded with the crowd’s sincere appreciation.  Mycroft found he liked playing for her because not only did she have a lovely singing voice, but she adapted to his playing with natural ease which in turn made it easy for him to adapt to her singing.  Not for the first time he felt that stepping out of his regular ways proved more stimulating than he had ever expected, and apparently, interaction with others didn't always have to be an ordeal.  The second song was a little cheekier and, encouraged by the applause, Fiona added a little play-acting which amused Mycroft to no small extent.  He stole a glance in Greg’s direction and barely managed to suppress a grin when he saw jealousy flare up in those dark eyes. ‘You’re not getting any tonight’?  _We’ll see about that._

 

“Bet you wish you could play the piano, too, right?” Kevin nudged Greg, animosity forgotten for the time being. “Look at how she snakes herself around him.” He took a healthy swig. “Damn.”

“Damn indeed,” Greg echoed sourly as he watched Fiona run her hands along Mycroft’s shoulders playfully.

“ _The_ _continent of Europe is so wide, mein Herr,_ ” she cooed. “ _I couldn’t have crossed it if I tried, mein Herr, but I did what I can_ ,” she leaned against Mycroft’s back, “ _inch by inch, step by step, mile by mile..._ ” he tilted his head back, exposing his throat, and she purred, “ _man... by... man_.” His chuckle could be heard over the microphone and Greg considered his options of dragging Fiona off the stage and arrest her... on the grounds of openly flirting with Mycroft Holmes?  Yes.  That should do.  Indecent behaviour.  And then drag Mycroft home and remind him just who was to see that beautiful throat exposed like this.

_Bloody hell._   Who would have thought Mr Three-piece-and-umbrella would come across that stealth-sexy when unleashed on the unsuspecting public?  He was grateful when Fiona finished her last song and left the stage, accompanied by thundering applause, not without bestowing one last melting smile on Mycroft and having her hand kissed most gallantly in return.  Splendid.  _And now leave and never come back_.

Mycroft winked at him and launched into the jaunty little piece that Greg had loved so much that first evening, a peace offering directed at his enraged love.  He watched from across the room as Greg’s sour expression shifted into something more cheerful, albeit a little reluctantly.  He played two boogies after that, and when the crowd wouldn’t let him go, added a cheerful Scottish traditional, then stepped off the stage with one of his neat little bows.

“Here,” Thomas pushed a pile of little paper snippets and cards his way. “The usual.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said nonchalantly, put his leather jacket back on and stuffed his admirers’ notes into a pocket. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you now. I must catch a flight at 7 a.m. which means I need to get up at 5 at the latest.” He made a face and turned towards Greg. “Thanks for having me, Gregory, it’s been a pleasure, as always.”

Greg checked his wristwatch. “Actually, I better get going, too. Mind if I walk with you? I think we’re headed into the same direction, at least up to the next tube station.”

“By all means, please do.”

“Let me settle the tab. Be right back.”

“I won’t go anywhere.”

Greg nodded and headed for the counter.  Mycroft checked his mobile for messages and missed calls, and when he looked up he found himself subject to scrutinising stare.

“Yes, Andy?” he offered politely. “Anything I can do for you?”

Andy gave a non-committal shrug. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About you. You’re quite a mystery, Mike.”

“Thank you, I shall take that as a compliment.”

Andy edged a little closer. “By the way, you might want to stop calling him Gregory. He hates that with a passion.”

“He does?” Mycroft asked, surprised. “He never said as much. I’ve always called him that.”

“Yeah, but you might wanna change it.”

“I will. Thanks for telling me.”

Greg returned. “Thanks for coming, all of you. See you tomorrow, and better not be hung over.” He grinned as cries of mock-outrage rained down on him. “Bye now!”

 

They walked in silence for a while, having agreed they didn’t want Mycroft’s car to pick them up just yet.

“Andy just told me something I had not expected to hear,” Mycroft remarked casually.

Greg turned his head, surprised. “Oh yeah? And what was that?”

“He said you hate it when people call you Gregory. Is that true?”

“Uh-oh. Well,” he looked down and then met Mycroft’s enquiring gaze with a sheepish smile. “I do.” When he noticed Mycroft’s dismayed expression, he hastened to add, “It’s okay when you say it, really. It’s your voice that makes it sound nice. But yeah, I prefer Greg.”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well then, Greg it shall be from now on.” He stole a sideways glance. “While we’re at it, I really dislike having my name abbreviated. It’s Mycroft, not Myc. It’s acceptable at the pub but...”

Greg threw his head back and laughed. “Oh but aren’t we a pair? Calling each other names?”

Mycroft joined his laughter. “But I must confess there are occasions where I don’t mind it at all.”

“And they are?” Greg’s prodding was met with a naughty smirk.

“When we’re having sex,” came the prompt reply. “In bed you make ‘Myc’ sound like something really, really wicked with that gorgeously husky voice of yours.”

“Huh.” Greg huffed. “Same here. You have this way of sighing my name that shoots straight to my cock. Raunchy.” He linked arms with Mycroft. “Good. That’s settled, then.”

Mycroft looked down to where Greg’s hand had come to rest on his arm. “What’s this? Public display of affection?”

“God, sorry.” Greg started pulling his arm back but Mycroft caught his hand and tucked it back into the crook of his arm.

“No, please, it’s fine, Gregory – Greg,” he corrected himself. “I think we’ve put a safe enough distance between ourselves and the pub, and my men know anyway.”

Greg glanced over his shoulder. “Your heavies, of course.” He chuckled. “I’ve grown so used to them, I don’t even think about them anymore.”

“Let’s call Jeremy and go home. There is something I need you to know and it doesn’t belong in public.”

“Oh?” Curious brown eyes met an intense blue-and-grey gaze.

“I want you to understand I see no-one but you. My little performance with Fiona made you angry and while I found it amusing to a certain extent, I want you to know that you are the one I want to go home with. And the only one I want to come home to. Always. Understood? There is only you.”

Greg swallowed audibly.  He grasped for words but they escaped him.

“Close your mouth, Greg,” Mycroft chided him softly but there was a new tone to his amused voice that edged dangerously close to something like tenderness. “You look like a goldfish.”

Greg snapped his mouth shut and glared at Mycroft. “I’m no goldfish.” He cleared his throat. “Can I please snog your socks off right here and right now?”

“Snog my socks off?” Mycroft looked horrified. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a while. Say that again and I will reconsider what I just told you.”

“Bollocks.” Greg inched closer. “No way you want to reconsider. You know exactly what’s waiting for you when we get home.”

Mycroft tried one of his haughty stares but failed when Greg’s breath brushed his neck.

“ _Mycroft_.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Careful, dear, you’re scratching the china.”

Mrs Turner tut-tutted and Mycroft immediately stopped stirring his tea.  He shifted nervously in his seat and looked at Mrs Turner with such despair in his eyes that she reached across her kitchen table and patted his hand.

“No need to be afraid, Mr Holmes. It’s going to be quite alright.”

“But what if…,” he swallowed, “… what if they don’t like me?” He winced inwardly.  Since when had he ever cared about being liked or disliked, and when had he started to turn to 73 year-olds for advice and comfort?

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

“Because they’re children?” Mycroft ventured. “I’m not good with children. I’m not much of a people person to begin with although I know how to move amongst adults of all shades,” he winced again, this time about his clumsy choice of words, “and convictions. But children?” He made a helpless gesture.

“They’re teenagers.”

“They are?”

“Mr Holmes! Have you never bothered to find out?” Mrs Turner looked at him with a mixture of surprise and reproach in her light blue eyes and Mycroft lowered his head like a schoolboy singled out for not doing his homework.  Mrs Turner tut-tutted again. “Christopher is 15, I think, and Stephanie has just turned 13 and she will make sure you understand she’s not a child anymore.”

“Teenagers. It’s worse than I thought.” Mycroft sighed and picked up his tea cup.  _Oh Greg._   It wasn’t his fault, really.  He had volunteered for this.  ‘Oh, but I’d love to meet them’, his words echoed back to him and the memory of how Greg had looked at him still made his heart beat just a little faster.  He sighed again and reached for another biscuit.  Who would have thought he would ever step out of his way just to make somebody else happy?

“What do I talk about with them?”

“Oh,” Mrs Turner made a dismissive gesture. “Steph is easy. She has just discovered the wonderful world of fashion and make-up.”

“But I know nothing about women’s fashion, and I doubt I’m qualified to discuss make-up.”

“But you always dress so nicely, and I’m sure you’re surrounded by well-dressed women, too, so you can at least talk about quality and colour-coordination. Oh, and she plays the piano. You play the piano, too, don’t you?” Mycroft nodded, and she beamed at him. “There you are. Chris, hm, he likes to read. Or he did, the last time he was here. And he likes computers and science fiction films.”  She laughed softly when Mycroft sighed again. “You’ll be fine.”

He checked the time on his mobile phone and finished his tea.

“Time to face the dragons, Mrs Turner, it’s five o’clock.” He stood and put his linen jacket back on.  She rose, too, and when he smoothed lapels that didn’t need smoothing, she touched his arm in a soothing gesture.

“No need to be so nervous, Mr Holmes, just you wait and see.” She winked at him and he smiled at her.

“Let’s hope so.”

He followed her outside and when her door clicked shut behind him, he felt like he had been set on a path leading into doom but stepped up to Greg’s flat with grim determination and pressed the bell button.  Using his key didn’t seem appropriate today.

A voice inside shouted, “I’ll get it”, and he inhaled-two-three and exhaled-two-three.  The door was flung open and Mycroft stood face to face with a slim teenage boy who looked at him with eyes as dark as his father’s.  He turned his head and yelled, “Da, your boyfriend’s here”, then motioned for Mycroft to come in and vanished into the sitting room.  Mycroft steeled himself and stepped inside the flat that had become his second home but held a strange new world for him today.  He closed the door quietly and stood in the hall for a moment, listening.  The TV was on and he made out two voices over the sound, one male, one female, both very young.

Greg came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a bright orange towel, and grinned at him.

“No pressing engagements that require your immediate attention?”

“Sadly, no. England doesn’t need me tonight.” He returned the grin. “But I have agreed on a codeword with Anthea.”

Greg snorted. “Codeword. That is so you. You can just leave when you’ve had enough, you know, like a normal person?”

“Are you saying I’m not a normal person?” Mycroft tilted his head to the side and gave Greg the look that Greg called his ‘peasant, please’-face.

“You’re a Holmes. ‘nuff said.” He twisted and threw the towel back into the kitchen, then looked Mycroft appreciatively up and down. “Hello handsome.”  He shot a quick glance in the direction of the sitting room and when there was no imminent danger of being discovered, he leaned in and softly kissed Mycroft’s lips. “I’m glad you came,” he whispered. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show.”

“But I promised.” Mycroft protested.

“You did, but… kids?”

“They’re your kids, Greg,” he stated simply. “Shall we?”

“Ready when you are.”

Mycroft followed Greg into the sitting room. 

“Steph, Chris,” Greg announced, “this is Mycroft. Mycroft, these are my kids, Stephanie and Christopher.”

Two sets of dark eyes focused on Mycroft, scanning him from head to toe, and he met their curiosity in equal measure.  Chris was the spitting image of his father, a teenage version of Greg Lestrade with thick brown hair and his father’s built, and Steph was all arms and legs, a filly who would grow into a lovely young woman if the photos of Greg’s ex-wife that Mycroft had seen were an indicator.  She, too, had Greg’s dark expressive eyes but her mother’s blond mane and wide mouth.

She was the one to break the silence. “He looks nice, Dad,” she decided and Mycroft heard Greg exhale which made him grin, just a little.  So he hadn’t been the only one to be nervous.  Steph got up from her corner of the couch, put the ball of yarn she had been busy with on the trunk that served as coffee table and walked up to him. “He’s taller than I thought,” she told Greg and held out her hand.  Mycroft took it and she shook it gravely. “I’m Stephanie, but you can call me Steph.”

“Pleased to meet you, Steph. I'm Mycroft.”

“That’s an odd name,” she observed and Greg tsk’d.

“Steph, that’s rude.”

“But it is an odd name. Do you know anyone else who is called Mycroft?”

“Steph, your Kiwi chatfriend’s called Hashtag.” Chris rose from the armchair and shook hands with Mycroft as well. “I think Mycroft is better than Hashtag.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said drily. “Pleased to hear that.”

Chris looked at his sister. “He looks nothing like Ianto.”

Steph shrugged her shoulders. “But he dresses nicely, too.” She retreated to her corner of the couch and picked up yarn and crochet needle. “Dad doesn’t look like Captain Jack either.”

“Who?” Greg asked, curiously. “What was that? Captain Jack and – oh!” He chuckled. “Oh wow, to be compared to Captain Jack. I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or offended.”

“Pardon?” Mycroft looked puzzled and Chris rolled his eyes – a lot like his father.

“Captain Jack Harkness. Torchwood. Time agent from the 51st century. Very flexible when it comes to dancing. Made his first appearance on Doctor Who, ‘The Empty Child’.”

“So many species, so little time,” Steph added helpfully, and Greg looked a little scandalized.

“Steph!”

Huge brown eyes met his.

“But Dad, Captain Jack is cool. And I think he’s cute.”

“You’re wasting your time, Steph. He’s gay.” Greg pointed out.

“No, he’s not,” Chris corrected him from where he was lounging in the armchair again. “Captain Jack is omnisexual. Meaning he shags both male and female.”

“Like you, Dad.”

“Steph!” Greg said again, a little more sharply this time but a stifled sound to his left made him glare at Mycroft who pressed his lips together tightly in a heroic attempt not to laugh.  Greg sighed, then recognised the absurdity of their discussion and threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine, whatever. But let me tell you that Mycroft is nothing like Ianto Jones.”

“And how is that?” Steph asked.

“Well, for once, his suits would make Ianto hide in a corner and cry. And he’s no tea boy, either. Speaking of tea,” he turned to Mycroft. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Yes, thank you.” He followed Greg into the kitchen.  Greg filled the electric kettle with water and reached into the cupboard for Mycroft’s favourite tea.  He set up two mugs for them – Mycroft chose not to comment on the fact that tea was not to be served in mugs –, then shouted, “Chris! Steph! Anything to drink for you, too?”

“Yes, please, tea!” Steph shouted back and Chris, “All good, thanks.”

Greg took a third mug from the cupboard and placed a teabag into it.  He stood still for a moment, facing the cupboard, as if lost in thought, then his shoulders started shaking and he turned to Mycroft, eyes brimming with laughter.

“’He shags male and female, like you, Dad’,” he gasped, and Mycroft added, “Mycroft is better than Hashtag.”  Laughter threatened to well up inside of them but they kept it down, aware of the fragile nature of a teenage mindset, and neither wanted Steph and Chris to believe they were laughing at them.

Mycroft cleared his throat and in a shaky voice said, “Seems they took it rather well.”

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter. “They did. I was surprised, actually. Well, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Chris has been a scifi freak forever and is pretty open-minded when it comes to aliens and such, but his old man and another bloke?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, I was prepared for a major fit, like, ‘ewww Da, gross’. And Steph, well, you never know with girls. Especially not at that age.”

“Maybe your ex-wife had a quiet word with them?”

“Cathy? No. I asked her not to say a word. I thought I should tell them myself.” The kettle clicked and Greg poured steaming water into the mugs. “I was dancing round the subject on tiptoes, you know, about to start with the birds and the bees and how I’m still their Dad and nothing will ever change that, and then Chris just gives me this look and goes, ‘but Da, so you have a boyfriend now, big deal’.” He chuckled. “I didn’t know what to say. Of all the scenarios I’ve gone through, it had never occurred to me they would just, you know, be OK with it. Just like that. But then, I didn’t know they’ve been introduced to Jack Harkness in the meantime.”

“Well, I don’t know who Jack Harkness is, but I guess that you and your ex-wife have raised your children well.”

“I hope so, I sure do. But still, the divorce wasn’t easy for them, and I wasn’t sure if I should tell them at all, you know, kids being vulnerable and all that. But Cathy said they’re old enough to understand so I, well, I took my heart into my hands and jumped.” He smiled. “And look at them. They’re here for a week, just as we had planned, and they’re not suddenly uneasy around me or something. And you’re here, too.” He reached for Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it. “Today, life’s perfect.”

Mycroft blinked.  After all these months, Greg’s small gestures of appreciation and affection still struck a chord within him that he hadn’t been able to properly catalogue yet.  He didn’t know what to reply, so he picked his mug up, removed the tea filter and followed Greg back into the sitting room where Steph had cleared the second half of the couch from her things.  She patted the cushions and looked up at Mycroft.

“Will you sit next to me?”

“Certainly.”  He carefully crossed the room, trying not to step on magazines, shoes and bags lying around on the floor, and sat down next to Steph who regarded him with open curiosity.  

“Yes, Steph, what is it?”

She chewed on her lower lip and shot a quick glance in Greg’s direction who was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looked at them with an amused expression. 

“Why are you wearing a golden ring? Are you married?”

“No, I am not. The ring is of sentimental value. It was given to me by a good friend before he passed away.”

“A boyfriend?”

“No, more like a mentor. I’ve been wearing it for 15 years and I’ve grown used to it. It’s useful, too, because it holds off unwanted suitors.”

“Because they think you’re married?”

“Exactly.”

“But a wedding band is worn on the left hand,” she challenged him.

“Not everywhere. Germans wear theirs on the right hand, as do the Austrians and the Swiss.”

“But why do you need it? Don’t people know that you don’t go out with women?”

“Steph, please!” Greg cut in. “That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?”

“It’s alright, Greg, I don’t mind.” Mycroft said and shifted in his seat so he could look directly at Steph. “Not everybody knows that about me. I don’t hide it, and I am not ashamed of it, but unfortunately society is such that you must consider whether or not it’s appropriate to openly announce it or keep it discreet.”

“Would you get sacked if your boss found out?”

“Nobody can sack me for that. It’s a personal decision as well. I don’t talk about my personal life when I’m working. I find it’s easier that way.”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” She blew at her tea before taking a small sip. “Or have you always liked boys better?”

Greg closed his eyes, horrified.  Poor Mycroft.  Grilled by a 13 year-old.  He wondered when the mobile would come out for the codeword to be typed in.  He glanced at his son but Chris appeared uninterested, eyes fixed on his tablet computer and one earpiece plugged in.

“I had one girlfriend,” Mycroft said in reply to Steph’s question, “when I was 16. Then I found out I liked boys better and have been dating only boys since then. Well, men, actually. I stopped dating boys a long time ago.”

“Mhm.” She thought about it for a while. “Do people know you’re dating my Dad now?”

“Not many people know about it. It’s your Dad’s decision, too.”

“Dad!” She shot her father an indignant look. “Don’t you want to be seen with him?”

“Don’t be daft, Steph,” her brother looked up from what he was doing. “Da’s a copper, and he was with Mum for almost 20 years. If he suddenly shows up holding hands with Mycroft he’ll never hear the end of it.”

“But you can’t hide forever!” She looked upset, and Greg was up on his feet in an instant, squeezed himself next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said soothingly. “Not everybody is as smart and cool about it as you two are. I don’t think we’ll have to hide forever, but the time isn’t right just yet. OK?”

“OK.” She let herself be hugged and Greg pressed a kiss to her blond mane.

“Let’s get dinner ready now, shall we?” He looked up at Mycroft and winked. “It’s pizza tonight. Homemade, of course. Each of us gets to choose his or her toppings for his very own pizza quarter. Think you’re up for it, Myc?”

“Is that a challenge - Gregory?” The latter was delivered with a mocking undertone. “Do you think me unable to pile various toppings on a piece of pizza?”

“Not at all. Let’s go.”

They scrambled to their feet and even Chris unplugged his earphones and put down his tablet computer to follow them into the kitchen.  Greg cleared the surface of his little kitchen island and took the baking tray with the prepared pizza dough out of the oven.  Steph reached inside the fridge, took out a few plastic dishes and cheerfully announced the contents of each.

“Pineapples, ladies and gentlemen, sliced pineapples, sweet and juicy. And what is that? Quartered mushrooms, not for the faint at heart, followed by sliced red peppers. Behold, what have we here? Jalapenos, for those in need of fire.”

Mycroft felt the remainder of his initial nervousness melt away as he blithely piled layers of toppings on the corner that was allocated to him.  He found it amazingly easy to talk to Greg’s children who had turned out to be entirely different than expected.  But then, he hadn’t really had a precise image of what to expect, had merely dreaded an unpleasant evening with huge children’s eyes turned reproachfully to him, their father’s _boyfriend_ , had been ready to be regarded as the wedge that drove mother and father further apart.  Being compared to a TV show’s tea boy had not been on the mental script he had prepared for himself, and being interrogated by a 13 year-old had amused rather than appalled him.

So when it was time for them to say their good-byes for the night, he surprised all of them, including himself, by suggesting to meet for lunch the next day.

“I will text you the details,” he told Greg who looked at him with a stunned expression. “And don’t worry, it won’t be _La Fille et l’Agneau_ , you will not need to wear a tie.”

“But Dad looks sharp in a suit,” Steph piped in and Mycroft nodded his head in approval.

“He does, I have to agree with you. But we both know he tries to avoid wearing suits whenever he can.”

“Will you be wearing a suit?”

“Indeed I will. I’ll squeeze you in between meetings so you’ll get to see me in my working gear, in a manner of speaking.”

“Working gear,” Greg snorted. “Uniform, more like it. Alright then, I shall await your instructions. What’s the plan for tomorrow again? Chris, what does your timetable say?”

Chris made the screen of his ever present tablet come to life with a swooshing motion and opened a spreadsheet.

“Dungeon or Changing of the Guards in the morning, depending on the weather, Science Museum in the afternoon,” he announced and Steph made a face.

“Science Museum, ewwww. Dad, do I have to? Can’t we go to Madame Tussaud’s instead? Or Harrod’s?”

“I am so not going shopping with you,” her brother gave her a sinister look. “Harrod’s,” he huffed, “everybody goes there.”

“Because it’s fun!”

“Kids, please, we can talk about this later,” Greg interrupted them and looked at Mycroft. “So, we’ll be seeing you for lunch tomorrow. Looking forward to that.”

“Likewise,” Mycroft agreed.

They looked at each other, smiling, and Steph nudged him. “Come on, Dad, aren’t you going to kiss him goodnight?”

Her brother made a choked sound. “Yeuch, kissing. Gross.” Still, he nodded at Mycroft and offered his hand. “See you tomorrow, Myc. You’re alright.”

 _Myc_.  Mycroft sighed inwardly but shook hands with Chris. “See you tomorrow, Chris. You’re alright, too.”

Chris grinned and vanished into the sitting room.  When Steph offered her hand to Mycroft, he made a sharp little bow and sketched a kiss on her hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Steph. Let me see what I can arrange in terms of quality shopping.”

She beamed at him. “That would be fab!” She nudged her father again. “Kiss him already!”

Greg shrugged, turned towards Mycroft and said, “You heard the princess. Good night then, Mycroft.”

Their lips met for a chaste kiss and Mycroft felt, rather than saw, Greg smile, and he smiled in return.  Steph clapped her hands and cried happily, “That was so cute!”, then she disappeared to join her brother.

“Cute, huh.” Mycroft chuckled. “I’ve been called many things, but ‘cute’ wasn’t among them.”

“Welcome to the Lestrade universe,” Greg pulled him closer. “The Lestrades think you’re cute and dashing. Get used to it.”

The second kiss was considerably less chaste than the first one but not as intense as either of them would have liked.  Mycroft lightly touched his knuckles to Greg’s cheek.

“Thanks for a lovely evening. You have wonderful children, and I’m glad I have finally met them. Until tomorrow, Greg.”

“Until tomorrow.”

 

Mycroft made his way down the flights of stairs with a light step and an even lighter heart, already going through a list of restaurants that offered both quality food and a relaxing atmosphere, while at the same time speed-dialling Anthea’s number to find out about the latest shopping venues for teenage princesses.


	12. Chapter 12

The address that Mycroft texted Greg brought them to a restaurant named ‘Mealtime’, an odd name, Greg thought, but when they stepped inside he saw the appeal.  It was a comfortable mixture of posh and unconventional so that neither Mycroft nor the kids would feel out of place.  They were led to a table in a corner of the restaurant which was quiet enough to allow for some privacy but offered a good view as well.  Mycroft was already seated, scrolling through his messages, as always, but rose to greet them and Steph’s eyes went huge as she took notice of his impeccable navy pinstripe three-piece suit. 

She rammed her elbow into her brother’s side and hissed, “That is so much hotter than Ianto!”

Chris snorted – much like his father and Mycroft had to stifle a grin.  Those two would never be able to deny being father and son, and he pitied the fact that he would never have the chance to meet the famous grandpère.  It would have been precious to study three versions of the same man, old, grown-up, adolescent. 

Chris didn’t grace his sister’s remark with a reply but looked Mycroft critically up and down, too.

“You look like M,” he observed. “Are you wearing braces with that?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “M,” he repeated slowly. “What makes you say that? Bankers dress like that, too.”

“Bollocks,” Chris retorted and Mycroft found it impossible to hide the grin any longer as Chris continued, “You look nothing like a banker. You look just like Ralph Fiennes in Skyfall. Are you carrying?”

Greg groaned, fearing another interrogation. “Please, can we just sit down and have lunch?”

They sat down at the table and after the waitress had brought the menus, Chris insisted, “Are you carrying, Myc? And are you wearing braces?”

“Chris, drop it,” Greg said sharply, but Mycroft looked up from his menu and calmly replied, “Yes, I am wearing braces and no, I am not carrying. That’s what I have them for,” and nodded towards a table opposite theirs where two dapper young men studied their menus.  Chris turned around to look, then turned back and stared at Mycroft.

“Wow,” he said. “Da, that is so cool. You’re dating M!”

“I’m not M,” Mycroft corrected. “I am but a minor government official.” Chris opened his mouth as if to challenge him but something in Mycroft’s eyes made him close his mouth and he slowly nodded.  Mycroft picked up his menu again.  “Now that is settled, shall we order?”

They made their choice and when their lunch was served, Steph squealed in delight.

“Oh, the food looks so lovely!”

She turned the plate around so she could study the carefully arranged meal from all angles, then looked at Mycroft. “Can I take a photo of that, or would that be rude?”  

Mycroft found himself smiling at her.  So she had inherited that little quirk of Greg’s, the food appreciation.  “No, go ahead,” he encouraged her. “If anything, the chef would take it as a compliment.”

She beamed at him, snatched her mobile phone from her bag and took a few shots.  “Those are going straight into my food blog,” she said, satisfied.

“Food blog?”

“Oh please, don’t get her started,” Chris groaned. “Food blog, fashion blog. Stephie doesn’t know whether she wants to be a chef or a seamstress when she grows up.”

 “At least I’m doing stuff that’s useful. Not like you,” she shot back.

“I’m doing useful stuff, too!” Chris glared at his sister. “Just because you’re too stupid to understand it doesn’t mean it’s not useful.”

“I’m not stupid!”

“Chris, Steph, please,” Mycroft gently intervened. “Neither of you is stupid. People have different talents and inclinations. So Steph writes blogs about fashion and food. What is it you’re interested in?”

“Applied mathematics. Information technology.” Chris blurted out. “And statistics. Coding data.”

Mycroft shot a surprised look at Greg. “Are you sure he’s yours?”

“Hey now,” Greg protested. “Are you implying I’m not smart enough to father a genius?”

Steph giggled. “We can be stupid together, Dad. Chris can do the thinking for us.”

Chris huffed. “No offense, Da, but sometimes I feel like I’m talking to myself. Seriously.”

“You know,” Steph confided, shuffling a little closer to Mycroft, “Chris wants to be the next Q.”

“Steph!” Her brother glowered at her. “Shut up!”

“The next Q? As in, Bond’s quartermaster?” Mycroft sounded intrigued rather than amused.

Chris blushed but raised his chin sullenly. “Yes. And?”

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking pensive. “Mhm,” he said in lieu of a reply. “The next Q. Interesting.” He cleared his throat. “Let me hear about your morning. Did you go to the Dungeon, or did you watch the Changing of the Guard?”

Chris shot one last angry look at his sister who had turned her attention away from him and back to her plate, then said politely, “Dungeon. It rained when we left this morning.”

“And did you like the Dungeon?”

What followed was a description torn between childlike enthusiasm and teenage display of utter boredom.  Greg watched in fascination as Mycroft patiently looked at their photos and showed no signs of contempt or – worse – boredom.  Instead, he supplied ample historical background to the gruesome scenes on display but neither Steph nor Chris lost their appetite.  A huge serving of vanilla ice with hot raspberries was neatly disposed of, as was an equally large mousse au chocolat.

Then Mycroft’s phone vibrated, announcing the end of his lunch break and he signalled the waitress for the bill.  Greg neither argued nor insisted they split the bill.  They had reached a silent agreement as to who paid what, and Mycroft handling the bills of restaurants he had picked was part of the deal.

Steph looked disappointed. “Can’t you just skip your afternoon things and come with us?”

“Sadly, no,” Mycroft said apologetically. “I’m afraid my attendance is obligatory. However,” he paused, as if an idea had just manifested itself, “may I make a suggestion with regards to this afternoon’s schedule?” He looked at Greg. “Provided your father agrees.”

“What do you have in mind?” Greg was more than a little curious.  Who would have thought Mycroft Holmes would take an active interest in entertaining two teenagers?

Mycroft cleared his throat. “As it happens, I overheard a planned tour through Thames House had to be cancelled at very short notice which is highly inconvenient because everything was meticulously scheduled and set up. There are no public tours through Thames House, obviously, however this was supposed to be an exclusive tour for a very small and select party, four or five, I believe. You wouldn’t be interested to step in?”

“Thames House?” Greg looked stunned for a moment. “But how –” His eyes met Mycroft’s, and he shook his head, grinning. “I don’t want to know.” He turned to his kids. “What do you say? Up for a tour around the home of the spooks?”

Chris’ face lit up. “Awesome,” he breathed. “Will we see real spooks there?”

“We certainly will,” Greg replied. “but I doubt we’ll be able to identify them as spooks. If we could, they’d suck at their jobs, right?” He nudged Steph. “What’s the matter, princess? Isn’t that exciting?”

“Yes,” she said, a little dubiously. “It’s probably better than the Science Museum.”

“But?”

“If I behave, and if I don’t make Q jokes, can we go shopping tomorrow? Please?” A pair of melting brown eyes were raised to meet her father’s, and Greg felt it was impossible to say no.  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure, why not. We’ll go shopping tomorrow. I have no idea where to start, but we will go shopping.”

Chris suppressed a groan and again, Mycroft stepped in. “I know somebody who will gladly be of help. She knows all about the latest fashion trends, and what’s more, she’s an experienced treasure hunter when it comes to flea markets. Greg, do you think you can handle a few hours of shopping frenzy?”

Greg looked anything but enthusiastic, but again, Steph’s huge brown eyes melted his heart so he meekly nodded and said, “Unless you’re talking about designer stuff that will cost me three months’ pay, then yes, I believe I can handle it. I hope it’s Anthea you’re talking about?”

“Of course I’m talking about Anthea. There is nobody else I would ask to deal with such a tricky project.”

“Good,” Greg said in a firm voice. “If it’s Anthea, then we’re going shopping.”

“Who’s Anthea?” Steph asked curiously.

“Anthea is my PA,” Mycroft explained, “my personal assistant. One of the most resourceful people you will ever come across. She will make sure you will get the maximum result for a minimal stake.” He checked something on his mobile phone, found what he was looking for, then looked at Greg. “Would you consider entrusting me with your son while you’re learning all about the latest trends in female fashion?”

Greg narrowed his eyes in mock-suspicion. “Why, what sinister schedule are you cooking up?”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow in reply. “I was thinking about making good use of three free hours and take him to the Science Museum myself. I haven’t been there in half a lifetime and thought it would be a nice way of brushing up my mathematics and physics.”

“Oh Da, please!” Chris, too, had mastered the art of ruthlessly adopting a puppy look if he wanted something and Mycroft briefly wondered what would happen if all three Lestrades were ever to look at him like that. “Can I go with Myc, please? It would be such fun.”

Greg heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Oh well. Mycroft, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You do not really want to hear him drone on and on about data integration and scientific computing.”

“Oh but I do want to hear all about it,” Mycroft said in a firm voice and nodded in affirmation.

“In that case, yes, I trust you to take good care of my son.” He glanced at his watch. “So, when should we be at Thames House for this exclusive tour?”

“Around four o’clock, if I remember correctly. Do you think you’ll be able to think of something to do until then? I will confirm the exact time by text, along with a few details you should know about.”

“Fine by me. We’ll be there exactly on time.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.” They exchanged a small smile, then Mycroft signalled his security and nodded at the Lestrades. “Much as I hate to leave you, I have a meeting to attend.”

“See you tomorrow, Myc,” Chris beamed at him and Steph asked hopefully, “Will I see you tomorrow, too, Mycroft?”

Mycroft took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “If you’re willing to bear my company, then yes, I would very much like to see you again, too. Maybe I can drop by for dinner?”

“You most definitely can, Mycroft,” Greg said warmly. “We’d be happy to have you.”

“Very well. Dinner it is. And now please excuse me.”  He made one of his smart little bows and sauntered off, his security staff in tow.

 

The next evening, after another improvised dinner at Greg’s flat and after the kitchen was clean enough to meet with Greg’s approval, Mycroft touched Greg’s arm to stop him from following his kids back into the sitting room. “Greg, may I have a word?”

“What is it?” Greg asked, surprised at the serious undertone.

“It’s Chris. I’d like to talk about Chris, if you have a minute. Unless it’s inconvenient. Then we can talk later.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “What has he done now?”

Mycroft crossed the kitchen and closed the door. “Greg,” he said carefully. “Do you have any idea how extraordinarily gifted your son really is?”

“Well, yeah,” Greg looked pleased. “He’s a smart kid.”

“He’s far more than that. What are his grades like?”

“Oh, they’re OK. He’s really good at science, you know, maths and physics and such, and he’s doing well with all the rest, too,” Greg said proudly. “If he spent half as much time on his studies than he does on his experiments and equations and taking computers apart and putting them back together, then he’d be even better.”

“Have you ever considered sending him to a different school?”

“What? Like a nerd school?”

“Don’t make it sound like it’s something horrible. But yes, I am thinking along the lines of Harris City Academy.”

“Wait. That’s the Crystal Palace thing, yeah? For up and coming NASA geniuses?”

“That’s the one.”

“Huh.” Greg looked stunned for a moment. “Do you think he’s really that smart?”

“Yes, Greg,” Mycroft said patiently. “He really is that smart. I spent well over three hours at the Science museum with him and let me tell you, he left me baffled. I hope I’m not overstepping a border and I certainly do not want to tell you how to raise your children, but Greg, I beseech you, please talk this over with your ex wife. His current school cannot give him the encouragement and intellectual stimulation his mind needs.”

Greg leaned against the kitchen island. “Wow,” he tapped his lips with his index finger. “Have you mentioned any of this to him?”

“I most certainly haven’t,” Mycroft said indignantly. “I was merely watching him and listened to what he told me. Steph wasn’t joking, you know. Chris really wants to become the next Q. And quite frankly, he intrigues me.” He took a deep breath. “He reminds me of Sherlock when he was young, that hunger for facts and data, the endless curiosity, the desire to find out just how things work.”

“What, you thinking about recruiting him?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have phrased it like that but there might be... opportunities should he still be interested in a few years’ time. An academic degree would be mandatory but I don’t think that would be a problem.”

They were interrupted by a polite knock on the door and when Greg opened it, his daughter stood in the doorway with an impish smile.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

Greg twirled a strand of her blond hair around his index finger and pulled it lightly. “No, chit, you’re not interrupting anything. What is it?”

“Torchwood is on and we thought Mycroft might want to watch it.”

“Torchwood?” Mycroft echoed with a blank face and Greg groaned. “Torchwood, Mycroft, Captain Jack, remember?”

“Oh yes, Captain Jack. Omnisexual. I remember that bit.” Mycroft grinned.

“Yes, me too. Steph, I really don’t think you should be watching this.”

“Dad, please. I’m not a child anymore.” Steph rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m thirteen. I can watch a bit of scifi.” With a dramatic swirl of her new skirt she turned and rushed back to where she had come from. Greg sighed and gave Mycroft a long-suffering look.

“Not a child anymore. Well.” He pushed himself away from the door frame and walked to where Mycroft stood.  He cocked his head and listened for his children’s voices but all he heard was John Barrowman telling his audience that Torchwood was outside the government and beyond the police, so he leaned in and stole a kiss.  “Thanks for telling me about Chris, and thanks for spending time with him. That meant a lot to him, and we’ve been listening to him singing your praise all afternoon. Well done.”

A surprised little smile curled Mycroft’s mouth and he pulled Greg close for another kiss. “No trouble at all,” he murmured. “Thank you for trusting me enough to let your son spend time with me.”

Greg brought their foreheads together. “I trust you with my life, Mycroft. And I trust you with my heart.” He kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose and pulled away reluctantly. “Let’s go join them. Time for you to meet Captain Jack and Ianto Jones. Besides, we’re going up to Cardiff tomorrow for the Doctor Who experience and some Torchwood tourism too, I’m afraid, so I might as well get reacquainted with the scenery before I make a fool of myself.”

******

Mycroft arrived home a little earlier than expected and since Greg wasn’t due back for another hour from dropping Chris and Steph off at the railway station, he decided to make a phone call that was long overdue.  He checked the time on his pocket watch, took out his mobile and speed-dialled a number that went through a secure line.  He paced his living room with long strides, waiting for the call to connect, getting more annoyed by the minute. 

Being stuck in negotiations all afternoon, he had not been able to see Greg’s kids off and was surprised at how much he had regretted that – even more surprised at how quickly he had grown fond of them.  He had never felt comfortable around children but in this case had been willing to give it a try, if only for Greg’s sake.  Instead, it had taken the Lestrade kids all but three days to not only make him enjoy their company, but he had promised Steph to subscribe to her blogs and had exchanged e-mail addresses with Chris.  So when he had realized he could not shift his afternoon appointment, he had been genuinely cross, and waiting for what seemed an eternity of ringing didn’t do much to lift his spirits.  Finally, the call was connected.

“Hello brother dear,” a deep voice drawled at the other end of the line. “So good of you to check in.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply, “you were supposed to ring me this morning.”

“Oh dear, have I disrupted you morning schedule? Please do accept my apologies.”

Mycroft drew a deep breath, determined not to give in to temptation to enter another bickering contest. 

“Where are you now, and has there been any progress?” he asked in what he hoped was a calm enough voice.  Luckily, Sherlock replied in an equally businesslike fashion, and they went through a few crucial topics until they were at eye level with each other’s progress.

“Is that music I hear in the background, Mycroft?”

“Indeed it is. You do know I am in possession of a stereo soundsystem, do you not?”

“Of course I do. It merely strikes me as odd. What time is it over there? Six o’clock in the afternoon? You’re listening to French chansons on a summer day? Are you expecting a visitor?” His brother's rich baritone took on a mocking quality. “A romantic encounter of sorts?”

“I can listen to whatever I like at whatever time I choose, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped. “And I am neither expecting a visitor nor am I planning a romantic encounter.”

“Maybe you should. It might help you learn to control your temper.”

“Sherlock, I’m warning you –” a noise by the door made him start and he turned around sharply. 

Greg stood in the doorway, pale as a sheet, and the hurt in his eyes made Mycroft’s heart plummet.

“I must go,” he told his brother in a flat voice. “I will call you back.”

He ended the call and turned to face Greg who stood motionless, rooted to the ground. Mycroft took one step towards him.

“Greg, look –” he began, but Greg raised his hands.

“He’s alive. And you knew. You fucking _knew_.” He spat the last word. “After all this – after all we’ve shared. You knew how much I’ve mourned for him and how much I still miss him. Oh, but he’s _alive_.” He clenched his teeth and his hands closed into fists and opened again. “Did you have a good time laughing about me? ‘Poor old Lestrade, isn’t it amazing how thick he really is?’ And John, oh my God, John. Did you laugh about him too?”

Mycroft opened his mouth but Greg made a rude gesture. “You fucking Holmeses with your massive intellects. So above the rest of us. We’re just too bloody stupid, right? Well, let me tell you one thing, _Myc_.” Dark eyes cold with fury bore into him, searing his very soul, leaving him charred, and Mycroft closed his eyes, unable to face what was coming. “I am so done here. I’m sick of being excluded and hidden away. I can’t take it any longer.”

He turned with an abrupt motion, stormed through the hallway and slammed the door behind himself.

Mycroft stood frozen, unable to move until a creaking sound made him look down.  He was clutching his mobile phone with such force that his knuckles had turned white and the phone’s plastic shell was creaking in protest.  He opened his hand and watched as the phone fell to the ground.  On legs that suddenly felt a little unsteady he staggered a few steps into the room, collapsed on his couch and stared with unblinking eyes at the spot where Greg had stood.

_‘I am so done here.’_

He buried his face in his hands.  _Oh Greg. I am so sorry. So very, very sorry._

 


	13. Chapter 13

For the first time since he had left uni, Mycroft Holmes curled into a tight ball on his couch, not bothering to take off his jacket or his shoes.  He was simply lying… in a heap on the couch – wasn’t that the phrase Greg had used when he had first seen his flat?  Greg.   _Oh dear God, Greg. What have I done?_   He turned around so he came to lie on his back and covered his eyes with his left arm.  His right dangled off the couch, lifeless and weak.  He knew that technically it had been the right thing not to get Greg involved – Greg with his strong sense of what was right and wrong –, but emotionally?  It had been so hard hiding the truth from him, to not actively lie but simply not tell the truth, either.  One of his easiest exercises, something he did on a daily basis.  Veiling facts came as naturally to him as breathing, but on so many occasions he had come dangerously close to just blurt out everything to Greg… and now it had all been in vain. 

He had almost forgotten about Greg’s temper that tended to flare up when provoked; so used had he grown to seeing his dark eyes full of warmth and laughter that he had not expected to ever watch them turn this cold.  Something inside him threatened to suffocate him and his breath started to stutter.  He abruptly sat up but it wouldn’t go away.  His throat felt constricted and his stomach was a clenched ball of ice.  He bent forward, hung his head between his knees and forced himself to inhale-two-three exhale-two-three, repeatedly, until his breathing slowed down and his eyes stopped burning.  Only then he got up and went into his walk-in closet, stripped, hung up his suit and tie, threw shirt, undershirt and socks into the laundry basket in the corner and reached for a pair of dark blue jeans, a simple black t-shirt and one of the longsleeve Henley shirts that Greg liked to see on him.  He put the clothes on and walked back into his living room, barefoot, poured himself a Glenlivet and sat back down on the couch.  He stared blindly into space, all too aware of the icy void where until less than an hour ago there had been a living, beating heart. 

Well.  _All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage._   He took a deep gulp from his tumbler and stood up, disgusted at himself.  Whenever had he become so sentimental?  And all over an ageing police officer, stubborn and opinionated, divorced with children.  Another deep gulp, and the empty tumbler was angrily set on the coffee table.  Nothing the piano couldn’t heal.

Mycroft walked over to the small shelf where he kept his music sheets and snatched the first handful of sheets off the top of the neatly stacked pile.  He sat down at his piano and went through a few simple warm-up exercises first, then started playing Bach’s Prelude in C major, one of his favourites.  The notes danced through the room and without much of a transition he launched into an angry interpretation of Rachmaninoff’s Preludes.  Mycroft played Rachmaninoff until the pain inside of him was reduced to a throbbing nothing and then, seemingly without consulting his brain first, his fingers chose to play the ‘Coultergeist’, the merry little piece he had played for Greg when they were at the Silver Fox, and at numerous occasions right here in this room.  He remembered Greg’s eyes, further darkened by desire, fixed on his fingers as they danced across the piano keys, and his voice, his gorgeously husky voice, breathing into his ear, _‘I love your hands so much, Myc, your beautiful hands. You do me in with those hands of yours, you know that, right?’_

With an abrupt movement, he stood from the piano stool and closed the lid over the piano keys with a force that would make him shudder any other time.  Not now.  He knew what to do, and knew exactly where to go.  He all but ran back into his walk-in closet, stopping only to pick up his mobile that was still lying on the floor where he had dropped it.  Balancing on one leg and struggling to put a sock on with one hand, he tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and waited impatiently for the call to connect.

“Jeremy, Holmes here. Listen, I know you have the evening off and I am truly sorry to bother you, but might I ask for a favour? I need to go to Kensington Gardens immediately. If you cannot make yourself available, would you please get in touch with Timothy and send him here right this instant? One security detail will suffice. – Oh, you will take me there yourself? That is much appreciated, thank you so very much. – Yes, only me. Thank you. See you in a bit.”

He locked the screen of his phone and shoved it carelessly into a front pocket of his jeans, put on the second sock, snatched his favourite brown leather brogues from their shelf, slipped them on and dashed outside.  He almost tripped over the shoelaces and impatiently bent down to tie them, then grabbed his panic-button bracelet and key card and shot through his apartment door, slamming it shut with a loud bang.

******

Greg ran as if a pack of howling banshees was on his heels.  He was on his second round through the park, running twice his normal route with almost twice his usual speed.  He hadn’t properly warmed up, either, and there would be hell to pay tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less.  All he cared about right now was the screaming pain inside of him, the sense of betrayal that shrieked with piercing shrillness.  Sherlock was alive, and he had mourned him with all of his heart.  Sherlock, his friend and protégé.  Alive.  And Mycroft had known all along, had listened to him talk about his brother in the past tense.  _Oh God, Mycroft._   He stopped only when his chest threatened to collapse, whether from emotional pain or sheer exhaustion he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anyway.

He slumped down on the nearest empty bench, leaned back against the wooden backrest that was warm from the sun, and closed his eyes.  He replayed the scene that had passed in Mycroft’s living room over and over in his head, remembered each angry word he had flung at him until all he could see was the pain in Mycroft’s eyes.  He rubbed his hands across his eyes and groaned.  _Well done, Lestrade. You have a way with shy creatures. Yelling is a sure way into a Holmes’ heart. Well, into_ this _Holmes’ heart._   The feeling of betrayal had stung, but had Mycroft really betrayed him?  Had he ever actually _lied_ to him?  He had danced around the subject of Sherlock’s ‘suicide’, yes, reluctant to talk about it or his brother, for that matter, but Greg had attributed it to Mycroft being very private about his feelings, even to him, especially where his family was concerned, and had not pressed the issue.  And when he had lost it so completely back there in Mycroft’s flat, it was partly because he was angry at himself, for not having seen what had been there all along.  _You see but you do not observe,_ Sherlock’s deep voice echoed in his head.  Greg barked out a short laugh.  Bloody Holmeses, both of them.  What now?

He could not lose him.  Go back to his life the way it was before Mycroft Holmes had entered and conquered it so thoroughly?  Go back to his lonely nights and never again hear that velvety voice grow hoarse with passion and never see that aristocratic eyebrow arrogantly arch up whenever he said something utterly ridiculous?  Losing him would break his heart, sure as the next day, but he knew from first-hand experience how impenetrable the Holmes ice walls could be.  

What now indeed. 

Approaching footsteps did not make him look up, but the sound of a throat being cleared and a soft voice speaking his name made him snap to attention.

“Greg.”

******

Jeremy dropped him off at Kensington Gardens, and with long strides Mycroft approached the statue of Peter Pan, the very spot he and Greg had met that Saturday after his shopping spree.  The day they had really noticed each other.  He hoped his instincts would not prove him wrong, and he stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the lonely figure on a bench facing the bronze boy.  Greg was leaning against the backrest, legs spread, head tilted back, pinching the bridge of his nose, his t-shirt soaked in sweat.

Mycroft cleared his throat and softly said, “Greg.”  When Greg opened his eyes and focused his attention on him, there was no scorn anymore, if anything, Greg looked tired.  Tired, but not hostile, and a faint spark of hope sprang to life.

“Mycroft,” Greg replied cautiously. “How did you know I was going to be here?”

Mycroft nodded towards Peter Pan, and a reluctant grin spread across Greg’s face. “Damn. I didn’t even notice. Must have been on autopilot.” He patted the space next to him. “Sit,” he commanded. “We need to talk.”

Mycroft nodded meekly and obediently sat down. “Greg –” he began but was cut off.

“No, let me begin, please. I feel I need to apologize. I behaved like an utter idiot, and I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I am sorry, Mycroft, I truly am.”

“You are sorry?” Mycroft repeated, stunned. “What do _you_ need to be sorry for? You haven’t done anything wrong. I should be the one to apologize, and I do. From the bottom of my heart, Greg, I am so very sorry.”

“Shhh,” Greg put his index finger to Mycroft’s lips. “Hear me out. I was hurt, and I still am. Yes, I felt betrayed and part of me is still screaming you should have told me. But you know, Myc,” for once, Mycroft was glad to hear his name abbreviated because it usually meant Greg had his guards down, “I’ve worked with covert operations in the past, and Lord knows how many times I had to dish out lies to the bereaved, making up stories about how their loved ones died. I know how badly I wanted to tell the truth but couldn’t. It’s just,” he raked his fingers through his hair, groping for words, “I’ve never been on the receiving end and let me tell you, it hurts like hell to find out like this.”

Mycroft drew a long breath.  Of all the things he had expected to hear, this had never occurred to him.  He was so used to drama and scenes that Greg’s quiet acceptance and down-to-earth approach towards life with all of its twists and bends never failed to surprise him.  He hesitantly reached out and when Greg didn’t flinch back, he smoothed a few salt and pepper strands that stood out at odd tufts.

“Does that mean you’re not done with me yet?” He tried to keep his voice calm but couldn’t help the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“No, you silly Holmes, I am not done with you yet.” Greg’s eyes met his, their usual warmth back in place, and the icy void that had filled his chest left, just like that, as if it had never been there, and he once again became aware of the steady beat of his heart.  Greg shifted around so he faced Mycroft. “But I meant what I said about being tired of hiding and being excluded.” He held up his hand when Mycroft opened his mouth as if to intervene. “I’m not talking about state secrets, Myc. I don’t need to know and I don’t want to know. I’m talking about us. I know we talked about the necessity of this remaining confidential, but I am just so tired of it, Myc. I want us to be able to go out together and not act as if we’re just… mates, you know.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly, only then realizing he had held his breath.

“So you wouldn’t mind being seen in public with me? I remember you saying something about waltzing about with me in your arms and sleeping your way back up the ranks.” He smiled as he recalled their conversation in Greg’s small kitchen.

“Yeah,” said Greg slowly, “I did say that, didn’t I. But that was, what, almost half a year ago, right?”

“Five months,” Mycroft corrected. “It’s been five months.”

“Right. Five months. A lot has changed since then. I mean, would you seriously have expected all of this,” he made a gesture that included the two of them, “to happen? I know I didn’t. I was glad enough to have patched my life back together. But then you happened. And did you ever.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Greg, you see,” he winced inwardly at how unsteady his voice sounded, but it was uncertain grounds he was about to venture on, so he continued, “it wasn’t before you slammed the door behind yourself that I realized – no, that I finally understood that I cannot go back to my life as it was. I –” he wet his lips and decided to take a leap of faith, “I cannot breathe when you are not around. And it has taken me all these months to realize that. Don’t leave me, Greg, please.” He closed his eyes, so sure he had just made a fool of himself, expecting to hear Greg snort about him being sentimental.  Instead, he felt a featherlight touch to his cheek and opened his eyes again to see Greg smile at him.

“Let’s go home, Mycroft,” Greg said simply. “I’m quite done talking for today.” He stood up and made a disgusted face when he felt the wet fabric of his shirt cling to his back. “I really need to shower and I could use someone to scrub my back. Care to join me?” He held out his hand and Mycroft accepted it, without hesitating, and let himself be hauled up from the bench as his long fingers twined with Greg’s shorter, stronger ones. 

A perfect fit.

******

“Mycroft.” Greg’s voice held an indignant tone and he very nearly stomped his foot. “Is that really necessary? There are clip-ons for that, you know.”

“Oh no!” Mycroft sounded horrified. “One does not wear a ready tied bow tie with an evening dress, and I shudder to even think about a clip-on. We are going to do this properly.”

He watched with mild amusement as Greg struggled with the silk ribbon and stifled a laugh when presented with the result.  Greg glared at him, all but tore the ribbon off and flung it at Mycroft.

“Here,” he said sullenly. “You do it.”

Mycroft sighed dramatically but stepped behind Greg.  He put the abused ribbon around Greg’s neck and with deft hands started tying the expensive material into perfectly symmetrical loops.  He went extra slow so that Greg could follow, but Greg didn’t pay much attention.  His eyes were fixed on Mycroft’s elegant fingers and their swift movements, and he was further distracted by Mycroft’s breath against his neck.  When the bow tie met with Mycroft’s approval, Greg reached for his jacket and put it on.  He eyed himself critically in the body-length mirror, the latest addition to his small bedroom that Mycroft insisted he should get (‘Really, Greg, I don’t understand how you can dress properly with only that laughable excuse of a mirror in your hallway.’). He had protested at first but had soon found out it added an interesting element to their lovemaking, and the protests had quickly died down.

“I look like a waiter,” he observed. “People will be ordering drinks from me.”

“Oh no, they won’t. You’ll be amongst the top five desired objects of each bounty hunter present, both male and female. I will have to keep my eyes on you, my love.”

“Or there’ll be an awful lot of deportations to supervise, right?” Greg chuckled and took Mycroft’s hand to pull him close. “Look at us,” he said, and despite his former flippant remark, there was something like awe in his voice. “Look at us both.”

Mycroft swallowed, at a lack for words.  They were headed for a semi-formal dinner party, and while it was a black tie rather than a white tie affair, it still had caused quite some frantic string-pulling beforehand as Greg had not possessed a proper evening dress for the occasion and it had been impossible to have one tailored in time.  Mycroft’s personal tailor, however, had provided them with an address where ready-made suits of impeccable quality could be ordered and had personally vouched for their tailoring.  Mycroft’s expectations were surpassed by far and as he looked at Greg’s reflection, he felt his heart swell with pride.  Greg was handsome in all of his outfits, even in those horrible three-for-the-price-of-two shirts he usually wore for work, but Greg in an evening dress took his breath away. From the single-breasted jacket and V-shaped waistcoat down to his polished black Oxfords he looked as if he had just stepped out of a glossy fashion magazine.  Mycroft intertwined their fingers and cleared his throat as if to say something, but Greg was quicker.

“We’re sexy bitches.”

Mycroft snorted – an annoying habit of Greg’s that he had unconsciously adopted – and the spell was broken.  They grinned at each other, then Greg placed his hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck and pulled him down to plant a noisy kiss on his mouth.

“And we are going to have _fun_ ,” he announced.

“Prepare yourself for disappointment,” Mycroft warned, “I have yet to find amusement in parties such as this one.”

“Bollocks,” Greg said dismissively. “That’s because you’ve never taken me.” He winked mischievously. “I’m good at parties, trust me.”

Mycroft checked the time on his mobile. “Time to go,” he announced. “Jeremy will be here shortly.”  He cast one last glance in the mirror, straightened his bow tie that didn’t need straightening, smoothed lapels that didn’t need smoothing and adjusted cufflinks that didn’t need adjusting. 

“You’re fussing, Mycroft,” Greg pointed out. “You look amazing. I will be the one having to arrest people for staring.”  But he, too, adjusted his cufflinks which were identical to Mycroft’s, a small token of celebration of their first public appearance together.

They stepped outside into the hall and the lift door opened to let Mrs Turner out as Greg locked the door to his flat. 

“Good evening, Mrs Turner,” Mycroft said politely and Greg echoed, “Good evening.”

His neighbour clapped her hands together like a girl as she looked them up and down.

“Look at the two of you.” She beamed at them. “So handsome! Are you off to the opera?”

“Sadly, no,” Mycroft said with regret in his voice. “Business, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” She clicked her tongue. “Will royalty be present?” she asked hopefully, and Mycroft shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs Turner. It is merely a dinner party, a diplomatic occasion. Otherwise we’d be wearing white tie.”

“Oh, I see.” She nodded gravely. “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy your evening. Good night, lads.”

“Good night, Mrs Turner,” they said simultaneously, and she bestowed another beaming smile on them before she vanished into her flat.

Mycroft pulled Greg into the lift.

“Come on, Mycroft,” Greg laughed. “Don’t be so lazy, it’s only three stairs to walk.”

“I know,” Mycroft pushed the button and cornered Greg. “But if we take the stairs, I won’t be able to kiss you properly.”  And he proceeded to show Greg just what his interpretation of ‘properly’ entailed, but sadly, the lift ride from the third floor to the ground floor merely allowed for a brief demonstration and when they stepped outside, they were just a little breathless and not at all dishevelled.

Jeremy was already waiting for them and as they were about to get into the car, Greg took Mycroft’s arm.

“Wait,” he said. “Let’s take a photo of you and me.”

“Why? There will be photographers present.”

“So I can send it to Steph,” Greg explained patiently. “She will be so chuffed.”

“Oh, I see. Of course.”

Greg reached for his mobile phone and handed it to Jeremy. “Would you mind?” 

The young man smiled and took the mobile. “It would be my pleasure.” 

He took two photos and Greg asked for a third shot, just to be safe.  Seconds before the camera clicked, Mycroft placed a kiss on Greg’s cheek which took Greg entirely by surprise and he started laughing.  Jeremy handed him his mobile back and they got into the car.  Greg checked the photos and sent all three to Steph, the surprise kiss included.

“It will make Chris gag, but Steph’s gonna love it.”

His phone rang only minutes later and Greg put Steph on speaker. 

She squealed, “You are sooo cute together!”  Mycroft wrinkled his long nose and Greg laughed.  They exchanged a few sentences, mainly about how Chris had agreed to change the layout of her food blog so it would look a bit more ‘stylish’, and then she had to go because her latest blog entry needed some editing – “Really Dad, no way I can upload it just like that”.  He muted his phone and put it back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

 

Greg followed Mycroft into the reception hall and blinked.  He had attended semi-formal events before, albeit none of the black tie kind, but formal enough to be sure he would be able to hold his own.  This, however, was an affair of a somewhat grander scale and he swallowed a little nervously.  Mycroft seemed to sense his unease and reached for his hand to squeeze it reassuringly.

“Relax, Greg, you have nothing to fear,” he murmured.  Greg squared his shoulders and nodded.  Drinks were offered and he gratefully accepted a glass of champagne.

A familiar voice greeted Mycroft. “Mr Holmes, so good to see you tonight. How do you do.”

“How do you do, Sir John,” Mycroft replied and Greg recognized Sir John Allendale. “Sir John, I believe you have already met Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade.”

As Sir John and Greg shook hands, Mycroft added with a proud little smile, “My partner.”


	14. Epilogue

_Six months later_

Greg stepped into the parking garage which was almost empty.  He was tired to the bones.  It had been another long day, exhausting both at home and at work.  He hated press conferences with a passion, and the moving company had been almost two hours late.  Mycroft would be so not amused if there were moving boxes still standing around upon his return from wherever he currently was.

Greg had thought about calling Anthea for help but she had more than enough to do when Mycroft was travelling, and Greg had been certain he could handle the move into their new flat himself.  It wasn’t as if he had never moved before and money wasn’t the issue where Mycroft was concerned, but a traffic jam was a traffic jam, and not even an expensive moving company could avoid getting stuck when London’s streets gridlocked.

He sighed and reached for his cigarettes when he thought he heard something.  He cocked his head and listened but when there was nothing, he put a cigarette into his mouth and flicked his lighter on.

“Those things will kill you.”

He froze at the sound of a voice he had not expected to hear.  Well, not yet, at least.  He let the flame die and straightened, very slowly.

“Oh, you bastard,” he said and took the cigarette out of his mouth as he turned to face the tall frame of Sherlock Holmes slowly making his way towards him.

“It’s time to come back,” the consulting detective said in his rich voice. “You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.”

“Greg,” he corrected, exasperated.  Would Mycroft’s annoying little brother ever remember his name?

“Greg,” Sherlock repeated and had the grace to look embarrassed, if only for a split-second.

They stood and looked at each other and Greg was torn between punching the other man’s chiselled features and hugging him.  Sherlock’s lower lip was already split, however, so Greg settled for the second option and pulled him into an embrace.  A very, very fierce embrace.

 

No more hiding.  Finally. 

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note, Sept 11, 2014: About a year ago I downloaded Lorelei James' book "Rough, raw and ready" (Book 5 of the Rough Rider series --> yep, it's just as delightfully smutty as it sounds, go check it) but never got to read it. You know, book greed and all. Last weekend I finally sat down with it and got the shock of my lifetime. There's a m/m scene between Trevor and Edgard that's almost an exact replica of my Mycroft/Greg scene at the end of chapter 4, you know, where Greg reaches up to interlace his fingers with Mycroft's. The exact idea, and almost the exact same wording. Problem is, Ms James' book is from 2008 and I finished my story some time earlier this year. I was shocked beyond belief... it was not my intention to plagiarise. I might draw an inspiration here and there (don't we all) but I swear I don't copy & paste. I have a vivid enough fantasy to write my own smut. Should you come across this book and compare it to this story - it was not willingly done. Sometimes weird things just happen but this was beyond weird. Just felt I need to point this out.


End file.
